Apprehensive Naked Little Trembling Boy
by nubianamy
Summary: Roderick is a selective mute. Backstory from his junior year (2013) in Chicago. Roderick, Unique, Marley, Jake, Holly Holliday, other characters to be named later. Tons of spoilers for the Donutverse, but can be read as a stand-alone story. Vague D/s overtones, references to prostitution. Did I mention spoilers?
1. Chapter 1

_(Author's note: I don't generally publish stories this way, without knowing how they're going to end, but I wanted to get this out there while Glee was still on the air. Wow, the appearance of Roderick in season 6 inspired... a lot of ideas. I spent most of my recent flight to Europe watching The King's Speech and crying and making notes about this story. This story begins during the second half of season 5 and will likely extend into season 6. It's titled after a lyric in Alanis Morissette's song "Wake Up" from Jagged Little Pill. I'm not a counselor and I don't advocate any of the treatments described here for selective mutism. Because this is Donutverse-related, it'll have D/s overtones and feature polyamory, and lots of characters and relationships might come as a surprise if you haven't been reading, but you can still read this as a stand-alone story. I'll clarify that in the Donutverse, Holly Holliday is a former therapist and hosts an online discussion group for teenagers who've seen her in therapy, including Roderick, Unique, Marley, Ryder and Jake. Also, if you think you've figured out who Sean Fitzgerald is, you're probably right. All will be revealed. Enjoy - amy)_

* * *

_My dad always said I could speak, but that I chose not to. It doesn't feel like that. Sometimes I have nothing to say, but other times I do. I want to. When I'm around people, I just can't figure out how to convert thoughts into words. I try, but nothing comes past my brain. I can't even make the words with my lips. I end up nodding and shaking my head a lot._

_My mom points out that the bigger effort I make, the harder it feels. That's definitely true. When it's just me at home with my mom, I almost always have words. It was harder with my dad. When I'd see the irritation and disappointment in his face, it would be all over. Like I might as well go to bed and try again in the morning._

_\- from transcripts of Roderick's counseling sessions with Sean Fitzgerald, West River High School, Chicago, fall 2013_

* * *

The first Thursday of junior year, I got slammed into three lockers, called variants of "fatty" six times and sent to the counseling office after being tripped in line at lunch, but I still couldn't count it as a bad day. That's not because I hate myself or anything. No matter how much my therapists talk to me about self-confidence and attitude, inside I think I'm pretty okay. It was because of what happened in the counseling office.

I blazed through my after-school chores even more quickly than usual, bagging up the garbage and taking it out to the dumpster on autopilot. Dexter was happy to make our afternoon walk more like a jog, joyfully pulling on the leash to go faster until we made the long loop around the block and ended up back at our building in record time. Then I grabbed a Coke from the fridge and settled in front of the computer, logging into Holly's discussion board. In the _What's Up?_ box at the top of the screen, I switched my mood from the usual _Anxious_ to _Thoughtful._

That got Katie's attention right away. She still had another hour of school, since she was on Eastern instead of Central time, but she usually got away with using her cell phone between classes.

K: _What's got you thinking, hon?_

R: _There's a new student intern in the counseling office._

K: _Oh yeah? Is he cute?_

R: _I wouldn't care if he was, Katie._

K: _Come on. Throw a poor girl a bone._

R: _He's tall and kind of athletic, sure. Whatever._

K: _Share a pic?_

R: _Oh, yeah, I took a selfie with him when he wasn't looking. You'll have to use your imagination._

K: _*pouting*_

R: _He knew right away what was going on with me. Said he had a teacher in high school who didn't talk to anybody for over a year, and if I needed a place where nobody would try to make me talk, I could come hang out in the counseling office._

K: _Sounds like a winner._

I wasn't sure how to convey how I felt about Katie's comment. School was definitely not a safe place, especially not this school. I do almost all of my communication in writing. The thought of having a teacher on my side was tempting — and dangerous.

R: _Yeah, if he's telling the truth. I'm thinking he's just trying to lure me in so he can work on my broken parts._

K: _He ain't a mechanic, Ricky, and you ain't a machine. No broken parts here._

I knew Affirmation Number One by heart, but even if I hadn't, it was right there on the screen, posted at the top of Holly's discussion group's home page: _I'm not here to fix myself or anyone else._

R: _Sorry, you're right. I'm sure he's a nice guy. I'll try to give him the benefit of the doubt._

K: _That's the spirit, Ricky. I'm heading into class. Keep us posted?_

R: _I will._

I knew she wasn't just saying that. She actually wanted to know what was happening in my life. They all did. It didn't matter that they were kids I only saw online; Katie and Jake and Mar were as close to real friends as I'd ever had. Even if I wasn't sure if I could trust Mr. Fitzgerald yet, I knew I could trust them.

* * *

_My mom's always reading about the latest research on selective mutism and talking to new therapists. She never makes me feel bad when the approaches don't work, but she doesn't stop making appointments either. I have to appreciate both her kindness and her tenacity. It's a valuable combination. Yeah, she's pretty great._

_We've already tried all the common treatments. Back in elementary school, the speech pathologists were all about stimulus fading? They'd start with my mom in the room, get the two of us talking, and then bring someone else in. That worked to some degree, but it wasn't going to cut it for situations in which my mom wasn't already there. It wasn't like she was going to follow me to school. _

_Eventually they had me try shaping. That was where they gave me rewards for anything I did that involved interactive communication, even if it wasn't verbal. That was nice, but I guess I didn't progress enough for it to count. I did get comfortable texting with my mom in public: she speaks aloud and I text her back. Most of the time people don't even realize we're talking to each other._

_Then there was the self-modeling. Apparently watching yourself on video doing the thing you're trying to do is supposed to help? I'd like to say it helped me, but mostly it made me even more self-conscious than I already was, because I could see just how lost and uncomfortable I looked. Eventually they let me stop looking at the videos. _

_Oh, yeah, I guess you know about all of these therapies, huh? Sorry. We haven't found another new one since we moved to Chicago last spring. _

_\- from transcripts of Roderick's counseling sessions with Sean Fitzgerald, West River High School, Chicago, fall 2013_

* * *

I got a chance to see Mr. Fitzgerald again a week and a half later, when Greg Holmes and Trip Gonzalez cornered me in the boys' room and spilled water on me in an inconvenient location of my pants. Ms. Lauer, the receptionist, was dealing with a crying freshman when I came into the counseling office, so I just stood against the wall and waited.

"Hey."

I turned to see Mr. Fitzgerald poking his head out the door of the conference room.

"Roderick, right?"

I nodded, and Mr. Fitzgerald smiled, nodding back. It wasn't a surprise that he remembered my name. Maybe it should have been.

He glanced across the room at the freshman and Ms. Lauer. "You can come in here if you want. It's quieter."

I spent a lot of time in that conference room when I transferred to West River at the end of sophomore year. Sometimes the counselors would be on my side and sometimes they'd be just as annoyed and frustrated with me as my teachers were. I couldn't blame them. _I_ was pretty much constantly annoyed and frustrated with me, too.

But Mr. Fitzgerald didn't say, "You want to talk about it?" He didn't even hardly talk to me at all, except to offer me a graham cracker. He just went back to his reading. After a few minutes of sitting there, I got my headphones out of my bag and plugged in. Shuffle served up Adele's "Set Fire to the Rain." I closed my eyes.

When I felt a touch on my hand, I flinched, banging my knee on the table, hard enough to make Mr. Fitzgerald's papers shift three inches. He jumped back in surprise, laughing.

"Hey, sorry to interrupt your music. I was just checking on you."

I pulled my headphones down around my neck, feeling the hot flush on my cheeks, and kept my eyes on the table.

"You don't have to stop listening. It's okay."

I nodded. I knew better than to disagree. I had lots of experience _looking _ okay, even when I wasn't. Mr. Fitzgerald went back to his reading, but I could see him not-watching me. I not-watched him back.

"So I bet you came in here for a reason."

Here it was: the interrogation. I nodded, getting out my notebook and my favorite pen. Mr. Fitzgerald watched me do that with a bemused look on his face.

"Anybody I should talk to?" He leaned back in his chair. "I'm just asking because I know sometimes it's worse when adults get involved."

I shook my head. Nothing good would come of it. Greg and Trip were good at talking themselves out of just about anything. _It was a mistake, Mr. Fitz. Me and Roderick, we're buds, right?_ Yeah, sometimes, at your whim, you arrogant prick.

Mr. Fitzgerald nodded. "Okay." He tilted his neck to look at the screen of my iPod. "Can I be nosy?"

I grinned, nodding, and passed the iPod to him.

"Adele. Should I know who that is?"

I raised an offended eyebrow at him. He snickered.

"I can't even claim to be too old to know, considering I was in high school myself two years ago. You want to enlighten me?"

My hands came up automatically to clutch the headphones around my neck. I guess I must have looked pretty terrified to warrant the concerned expression on his face.

"Hey," he said. His voice was incredibly gentle. "I'm not going to take anything away from you. I have my own earbuds. How's that?"

He rummaged in his pocket and brought out a tangled mass of cord. I did some of the breathing things Holly had taught me while he picked out the knots. It took him a while. When he held out his own little plug, I nodded. He unplugged my phones and plugged his own in, settling them in his ears.

There was a knock on the door, and Ms. Lauer peeked into the room. "Sean, you got a minute?"

He gave her a little wave. "Give us five, okay?"

"Sure." She seemed confused, but she closed the door and went away.

Mr. Fitzgerald listened with half-lidded eyes for a good minute, a smile spreading across his face. He didn't seem to be in a hurry at all. I kind of wanted to ask him if maybe I should be getting to fourth period, and I kind of wanted to stick around and play him something else. If he didn't know Adele, there were probably a bazillion other artists he didn't know. And that look on his face told me he _got_ music. It made me feel hungry to find out what he thought about my other favorites.

"Man. She's got a hell of a voice." His face looked satisfied, but maybe a little sad, too. That, more than anything, made me reach for the iPod and find the concert recording of the Stones' "You Can't Always Get What You Want."

When I handed it to him, though, he looked at the screen and blanched, his smile disappearing.

"Sorry," I muttered immediately, grabbing the iPod back and stuffing it in my bag along with my notebook and pen. I hurried toward the door with my head down, but when I glanced back at Mr. Fitzgerald, he was inexplicably smiling again, a funny little smile with only half of his mouth.

"No. No, that was… awesome." He shrugged. "I haven't been listening to much music lately. Too many memories. That one in particular. But you just made me want to." He laughed, not loud, but genuine.

"What?" I asked.

He broke into a lick of song. It sounded so unexpected and sweet that I laughed, too. "_You made me want to listen to music again."_

I wanted to say, _you don't know Adele but you know Adam Lambert, that's pretty messed up,_ but there was no way I was going to find that many words to say at school. I was already surprised to find myself saying as many as I had.

"Hey." He came around the conference table and stood right in front of me, maybe a little closer than I was usually comfortable with from anyone, and put his hand on my shoulder. "You come here any time. Don't worry about when, or how long you need. I'll let Ms. Lauer know. You're always welcome."

The way he looked right in my eyes, it was a little like a challenge, but more like he was giving me a soft place to land. It made me feel like crying. I took a shaky breath, unable to look away from his eyes, and nodded. Then I got out of there quickly, not even stopping at the clipboard hanging by the door to sign out.

Jake and Mar were online when I got home. I sat there staring at the screen for a while before I knew what kind of mood to put in my _What's Up?_ I finally settled on _Contemplative. _

J: _hey, man_

M: _*contemplates this bagel*_

R: _Mmm, bagel. Maybe I should change to "hungry."_

M: _You wouldn't if you could see this bagel. My mom has no power over the school caf's bread products._

J: _we have class in five, what's up?_

R: _I taught somebody about Adele today._

J: _awesome, and what cave have they been in_

M: _*hugging you a lot*_

R: _Virtual hugs welcome. Also, no tally marks, but two words spoken at school today. _

J: _KUDOS MAN first ones this year right?_

M: _*a million more hugs* And I was going to ask, you taught this person at school? Who?_

R: _Just my counselor. He's_

I paused. Usually words came pretty easily when I was writing, but trying to describe Mr. Fitzgerald in words that didn't sound either scary or sappy was going to be a challenge. Even as I thought, I could feel my face burning.

R: _Just my counselor. He's somebody I can trust, I think. And he likes music, like you guys like music. _

M: _You need one of those, Ricky. _

J: _does he sing?_

R: _It didn't come up. Somehow I doubt it. _

But then I thought about him singing that one line of Adam Lambert. It was tuneful, at least.

J: _you gonna tell him?_

I started to type _hell, no,_ which would be my general response to any question involving me being honest or vulnerable or myself at school. But then I found myself typing _Maybe?_ and I had to stop and force my body to relax.

R: _Maybe? He reacted kind of badly to the Stones. I don't exactly want to force him to dig up old memories. _

M: _Moving forward, right? Whatever you decide, I'm really proud of you._

J: _find you l8r_

R: _Sounds good. _

I turned off the computer monitor and slid my headphones back up to cover my ears, filling them with the sound of the boy choir at the beginning of the studio track of "You Can't Always Get What You Want."

_Well, I saw her today at the reception  
__A glass of wine in her hand  
__I knew she would go meet her connection  
__At her feet was her footloose man_

I was alone in the house, and that meant I sang along. Even when my mom's around, I do sometimes, mostly because she likes it so much. She says it's a good reminder of when she was younger. I guess she used to sing for real, at clubs and everything, but I've never actually heard her do it.

By the time I'd reached the end of the seven-minute track, I'd decided I was going to tell Mr. Fitzgerald about singing. Exactly how I was going to do that, I had no idea. But Holly always said, _move forward, even when you're looking back. _

* * *

_You like pain but only if it doesn't hurt too much  
__And you sit and you wait to receive  
__There's an obvious attraction  
__To the path of least resistance in your life  
__There's an obvious aversion no amount of my insistence  
__Could make you try tonight_

_\- Alanis Morissette, "Wake Up"_


	2. Chapter 2

_(Author's note: I've adjusted the rating to M just in case, but despite the setting, nothing untoward happens in this chapter. Ben's a new OC, but you might recall Eli from season 4, if you watched Glee. (spoiler) In the Donutverse he doesn't have sex with Blaine, he sells him drugs. -amy)_

* * *

Ben wasn't on shift the night the guy came into his house, but he wasn't about to ignore the sounds from the room next door. For one thing, he knew Eli wasn't about to agree to pain play, so there was no way that shit was consensual. He set his laptop down and sighed, picking up the phone and dialing the front desk.

"Celia, I think we got assault happening in room 203. Don't call it in yet, I need to confirm, but I'm going in. Jesus, what the hell's going on with security on the second floor? Who's on duty?" He ran a hand over his face. "Don't answer that. Send somebody up if I don't check in with you in five minutes."

He could hear the wet slaps and grunts of somebody being struck with fists through the door. He just went right in. There was no pretense of knocking or privacy here. This was a brothel, after all - _his_ brothel. No door was closed to him.

Sure enough, it was Eli on the bed, getting the shit beaten out of him by a tall white guy. There was no mistaking the look on his face. Ex-military could always spot fellow ex-military, and this one sure as shit was. Young, definitely, and worked up, but he was carrying out his beating with scary focus and calm. He didn't even look up when Ben walked in.

"All right, all right," Ben muttered, moving in with both hands raised, then went for the guy. He had six inches on Ben, easily, but Ben was used to that disadvantage. Within thirty seconds, Ben had him pinned, shoving Eli out of the way. "Eli. Talk to me. What happened?"

"Fuck, Ben," Eli moaned, trying to stem the flow of blood from his nose and cut lip. Eli didn't look like he'd even gotten one hit on this guy; what Ben could see of his face, considering it was being smashed into the mattress, was clean. The guy struggled, but Ben held him fast. "He just _whaled_ on me, no warning or anything. Saying something about a debt."

"Yeah? You owe somebody money?"

"No, I swear!"

That sounded like guilt to Ben, but he wasn't about to pump him for information in the middle of cleaning up a fistfight. Eli had been with him less than a year. Ben knew he had a history with drugs, dealing and doing, but he'd been clean when he'd come to work there, and that was what counted to him.

"Fine. Get downstairs. Celia'll get you an ice pack and see if you need stitches. You're off duty for the rest of the night."

He watched Eli stumble out of the room. The guy wasn't struggling anymore.

"I'm not going to run," said the guy in a low voice.

"You'll forgive me if I don't exactly trust you." Ben let up a little on his hold, though, and the guy winced for the first time. When he let go completely and stepped back, the guy just sat up, moving slowly. He leaned on all fours, then turned to sit on the bed.

"You can call the police in a minute," he said, "but I'd like a chance to explain. You're the — manager of this place?"

"Yeah, no, I won't be calling the police. But you're not coming back here any time soon, buddy."

The guy gave me a rueful half-smile. "Trust me, I hadn't planned on it."

Ben went over and closed the door, putting the chain on. He picked up the phone and called Celia, making sure Eli wasn't more fucked up than he'd seemed. Then he turned back to the guy, who looked like he hadn't moved an inch. He was just sitting there, staring at his hands.

"Okay, what's your story?"

"Your employee. Eli?" He waited for Ben's nod, and nodded in return. "Yeah. That's the name he used in Ohio, too. I did a little digging. He's got a couple other aliases."

_Shit._ Ben leaned against the wall with a sinking heart. "You a cop?"

"No, not a cop. I'm not here on official anything. This is personal. I had to… let him know how he'd hurt somebody, with what he was dealing."

"Drugs, huh?"

"Yeah," said the guy. He sounded hard now, but hurting too. Ben had heard plenty of both to know it was bone-deep. "You don't want a guy like that working for you. He's bad news."

"That's my business." Ben crossed his arms. "You're gonna pay for Eli's medical expenses."

"Or you could leave him at the hospital and let the state take care of him. He's going to get caught eventually. Might as well not be your mess to clean up."

"I believe in second chances."

"Not when somebody's selling coke to high school kids," he said sharply. Ben regarded him in silence. The guy's hands were clenched into fists.

"What's your name?"

"Sean Fitzgerald." He put both hands up before reaching for his back pocket and pulling out a wallet. From the billfold he drew a sheaf of twenties and held them out to Ben. "Here. Use it for what you think is right."

"For what _I_ think is right?" Ben laughed. He took the cash and stuck it into his shirt. "I run a brothel. What do you care what I think?"

"I trust my instincts. You're not an asshole, and you're not stupid." Sean was watching him carefully. "You're a business owner. You've got other boys to take care of."

Ben nodded. "Okay. Well, I can tell you're not an asshole either. And you paid to clean up your mess — which is what you should have done to begin with instead of trying to beat it out of him, but… I guess I get why you didn't." He took a card from his pocket and the pen from his shirt and scribbled a note on the back. "Take this down to Celia and she'll get you set up with another guy for tonight."

Sean blew out a breath through his nose, shaking his head quickly. "No thanks."

"You paid when you came in," said Ben. "I deliver. And you don't even need to tell me you're not worked up over what just went down."

The expression that flitted over Sean's face was something like desire and something like pain. "You… can't give me what I want."

"Because I've got boys?"

"Because none of them are the right boy," he said. "Boys."

Ben sighed. "Fine, whatever. We've all got ghosts, man, but you can't let them haunt you for fucking ever. Take the card. When you're ready, give me a call. I'll help you find what you need."

"I need you to turn Eli in to the police," said Sean. He rose from the bed, tall and straight, but the way he looked at Ben, it was almost as though his body was stooped as low as an old man.

"I'll get Eli's story out of him before I decide what to do with him."

Sean nodded. "Thank you." He was so fucking polite and sober about the whole thing. There was no way Ben wasn't going to believe him, especially not after the way he'd dumped a fistful of cash on him like that.

"Come on, you got all your stuff? I'm gonna walk downstairs with you, escort you out personally."

Sean nodded. All the fight had gone out of him. He went quietly with Ben down the back stairs to the street and disappeared out the door into the flow of pedestrians. Ben watched for a few minutes, but the street stayed quiet.

Then he circled back around to Celia's office. She had Eli sitting in a chair with a bag of peas on his face, his head tipped back far enough that he couldn't see Celia's grimace.

"Two stitches at least," she said. "You want me to take him to Saint Anthony's ER?"

"No," sighed Ben. "I'll take him. He's got some explaining to do."

* * *

Sean didn't call. He did show up at the drugstore where Ben bought coffee for the boys on duty, though. Ben went right up to where he was sitting at the counter, his long legs wedged in beside the tiny metal chair.

"Don't tell me you just happen to be passing by," Ben said.

Sean shook his head.

"Yeah, I don't know where you grew up, but you're never going to pass as a native Chicagoan."

"I was hoping you'd tell me what happened with Eli," he said.

"I sent him packing. Guy was bad news, you were right. But you could have called to ask about that."

"I needed to see if you were telling the truth."

Ben leaned across the counter and called to Namir, "Six tonight." To Sean, he said, "You really think you can tell that just by looking?"

"Better than I could over the phone." He shrugged, sizing up the grimy counter and bars on the windows. "Maybe I just needed to get out of the house."

Ben looked him over. Without all the anger on his face, he was pretty good-looking, especially in that sweater. "I got an idea of what you needed."

"No," said Sean. "I told you —"

"Somebody to talk to," Ben said gently. "I know there's all kinds of ways to deal with being lonely. Maybe I can relate a little."

Sean looked dubious. "You?"

Ben snorted. "I ain't always a whore, you know. Sometimes I'm just a guy who pays his bills and reads the news and feeds his cat. I know how much it sucks to get back from tour and try to make it in the civilian world."

"Tour?" Sean echoed, looking confused.

"Tour of duty. What were you, Marines?"

"US Army," he said quietly. "But I'm not — I mean, I never went on — on tour." Sean shifted uncomfortably in his tiny seat, fiddling with his cup of coffee.

Ben passed a twenty across the counter to Namir and took the tray of lidded styrofoam cups with a nod of thanks. He gave Sean's shoulder a pat.

"Come on. I have to get this coffee back to my boys before it gets cold. I've got a room where we can talk."

Sean shook his head, pushing his chair out and stumbling a little. "No, I really can't. I mean, I _really_ can't." He looked almost apologetic. "It's not my call."

"Somebody told you you don't get to have friends?" Ben clucked his tongue. "Man, nobody has that power. Not your boss, not your church. Not your controllist wife, if you got one of those."

"Controlling," said Sean.

"What?"

"Controlling wife." He broke into a sudden chuckle, but it kind of sounded like he might be about to lose it. "Controllist isn't a word… look, I really have to go."

Ben let Sean push ahead of him and out the door, making the bell ring. Namir gave Ben a disappointed look.

"Hey, I was just trying to be neighborly?"

"Sure," said Namir sourly. "That's one word for it."


	3. Chapter 3

_At the beginning of each school year, there would be a new therapist with a new treatment. Since they essentially ran out of ordinary ideas, I ended up in some pretty weird territory. I was willing to go along with most things, as long as they didn't involve humiliation. The thing was, it was kind of hit or miss whether anything in particular would feel humiliating? Performance art, that was the worst. Everything I did sucked. It felt like just another reminder of how the world was out to get me._

_The easiest thing is to stay home. I do a lot of that. Having access to the Internet means I never actually feel alone, not really, especially because of Holly's discussion groups. She was my therapist back when we lived in Ohio, but she let me stay on the online group, as long as I didn't break the rules. _

_I mean, it's not as if I'm likely to break rules. I've never really done that — not ever. My dad wouldn't have accepted it. The only time he would take me to task is when he thought I should have spoken in public, but my mom bore most of the punishment for that. She always told me it was just easier that way. When I was a kid, I was too afraid of him to argue with her about it. I know better now. _

_I guess it's a little late. Well, my dad died last spring. _

_\- from transcripts of Roderick's counseling sessions with Sean Fitzgerald, West River High School, Chicago, fall 2013_

* * *

The next day I went into Mr. Fitzgerald's office, I made sure I was better equipped. With Katie, Mar and Jake's help, I prepared a playlist of not-to-be-missed artists. I packed my headphone splitter, too, so we would both be able to listen at the same time.

Katie and Mar argued about a lot of the individual tracks, but it was interesting how all of us came easily to consensus about which artists deserved not-to-be-missed status and which did not. Talking Heads, Booker T. and the MGs and Tupac all made it, but Nine Inch Nails, Black Sabbath and Eminem did not. As Mar pointed out, _It's not about the melody. _We couldn't define exactly what it _was_ about, but that was okay. Even Katie didn't mind that my list was a little guy-heavy. _It's about your range, honey. You listen to what you can sing. _ I wasn't sure how to refute that, or how to tell her _I can sing most stuff,_ because she'd never heard me sing.

As Mr. Fitzgerald had promised, Ms. Lauer didn't blink an eye when I came in and headed straight for the counseling office. But Mr. Fitzgerald wasn't there. His notebook was on the table, and an old ballpoint pen with a chewed end, and the kind of cardigan that seems to come standard in teachers' wardrobes was draped on the back of his chair, but otherwise the room was empty.

I settled myself in the seat adjacent to Mr. Fitzgerald's unoccupied one and started to work on my French homework. It was stupid stuff, still mostly review from last year, easy to do while keeping an eye on the door. I didn't put my headphones on, because I figured it would be rude to ignore him when he came in the door.

He did show up, eventually. His face was red and blotchy, the way my mom's gets when she cries for a long time. I scrambled to my feet.

"You okay?" I asked. The words came without effort.

"Roderick," he said. "Hey… how long have you been here? I'm sorry, I didn't — I was, uh." He gave me a weak smile. "Yeah, I'm okay. Hard morning. But, hey, it's good to see you. I was hoping you might stop back in."

We both sat down, slowly, me in my seat and him in his. We could hear the quiet murmur of activity in the office outside the conference room. I kind of expected someone to come in any second and interrupt us and tell Mr. Fitzgerald he had to be somewhere else.

"Is that French?" he asked, pointing at my homework.

I nodded, shrugging, and made a face. He laughed.

"I took Spanish," he said. "I was pretty bad at it at the beginning, bad enough to have to take summer school, to make up my second year? But my summer school teacher was great. Really creative."

I checked for the dozenth time to make sure the list of artists was still there under my notebook. Then I set my iPod on the table with the headphone splitter plugged in. I put my headphones around my neck and waited, watching him.

His smile faded a little as he watched me, but he seemed to understand, adjusting his chair to be closer to my side of the table. "I'll try not to spaz out about music this time."

I was ready for that. I slid the paper out from under my notebook and showed it to him. He inspected it, reading the title aloud.

"_Not-to-be-missed artists._ Yeah, I can get behind lots of these." He smiled, running a finger down the side of the first column. "Some of them, though, I'm not sure if I've ever heard their music. Janis Joplin? Otis Redding? Smokey Robinson? They sound familiar, but…"

I couldn't help chuckle as I slid on my headphones. Then I waggled my iPod with the empty headphone jack at him. Mr. Fitzgerald looked surprised, then grinned.

"Awesome. Do I get to pick?"

I tried to make it look like I was thinking this over carefully. He laughed, picking up his chewed ballpoint pen.

"Well, I'll mark the ones I'm not sure about, and you can choose some of those."

It turned out that a lot of the ones Mr. Fitzgerald thought he didn't know, he really did. It was just their name he didn't know. That's how it had been with Adele, too, he told me as I cued up Janis singing "Piece of My Heart."

Watching Mr. Fitzgerald's face as he listened continued to be an intense experience. His eyes shifted, as though every few seconds he was hearing something new and meaningful that changed his view of the world just a little more.

For Smokey Robinson, I picked the track of him and the Miracles singing "You Really Got A Hold On Me." This one made him smile and nod along. I saw his mouth moving as he listened, but I would have had to take off my headphones to hear him sing, and I wasn't going to do that. But maybe my mouth was moving, too, because he tilted his head and watched me for a little bit too.

I pointed at the mark next to Eric Clapton and gave Mr. Fitzgerald a horrified look. He laughed.

"No, I know who that is! My mom, jeez, she never stopped playing him. I grew up listening to him. I just wanted to hear it. Do you have the acoustic version of "Before You Accuse Me?""

Of course I did. It made me itch to pick up my guitar and play along. My mom taught me how to play six chords when I was eight, and everything else after that I learned from YouTube videos.

Now Mr. Fitzgerald was definitely singing along. I tried to be subtle as I adjusted my right headphone, moving it off my ear so I could listen to him.

_Before you accuse me, take a look at yourself  
__Before you accuse me, take a look at yourself  
__You say I've been spending my money on other women  
__You've been taking money from someone else_

He had a perfect range for Clapton, a sweet, strong high voice, but he stopped when he realized I wasn't listening to the recording anymore. Then he laughed, looking embarrassed.

"I have a hard time listening to music and not singing along," he said.

"Me too," I said. He nodded, looking curious.

"You know how to harmonize?"

I glanced at the door, suddenly aware once again of all that was going on in the office just beyond it. Mr. Fitzgerald patted my arm.

"No, you're right. Bad timing. I was just curious. You ever sing with anyone else? A live person?"

I shook my head.

"I hadn't either, until somebody put the idea in my head. He was a teacher at my school who revived the old glee club. That was… wow, six years ago." He grinned. "It's a lot easier to sing when you don't have to worry about the wrong people walking in."

"At my house," I said. "That's where I sing."

Mr. Fitzgerald nodded. "You feel safe there?"

"Not really. We only moved there in April."

"Where were you before that?"

"Columbus. Ohio." I looked at the door again. "Is this really okay? What about class?"

Mr. Fitzgerald moved into my line of sight, taking up my entire field of vision. He was focusing on me so hard I felt it like a weight, pressing me back into my chair. "This is really okay, Roderick. And you can go back to class whenever you want. All right?"

I nodded quickly.

"Do you want me to close the door?"

I nodded again. I couldn't nod hard enough. _Yes, please, god_ sounded a bit much.

Mr. Fitzgerald got up, then paused. "Hang on, okay?" He went out into the office, then returned momentarily, pressing the door shut. "All right. Ms. Lauer's going to keep everybody out. No locks on the doors here, but maybe that'll feel like enough."

It was a lot quieter now, quieter than I expected. I couldn't hear any of the office noise anymore. I let out a big sigh, and Mr. Fitzgerald laughed, and then _I_ laughed.

"I never felt like this at school before," I said.

"Like what?"

"Safe."

"Yeah, I kind of got that." He sat back down beside me. "When I was in high school, the teacher I told you about, the one who didn't talk? He gave me and my — my friends a private room. A secret room, in the attic. It had a lock."

I laughed again, amazed. "Why would he do that?"

"Because he knew we had no place at school where we could go to feel okay. To be ourselves."

I thought about the attic room that Katie and Jake and Mar had at their school. Maybe attics were more common at schools than I thought. "I guess I never expected to feel safe at school."

"Yeah, but you don't at home either. That's not really okay."

I didn't know what to say to that, so I put my headphones on and restarted the Clapton track, turning the volume up loud. I couldn't avoid Mr. Fitzgerald's eyes, so I closed my own and focused on the music. When Clapton started singing, I did, too.

_Before you accuse me, take a look at yourself…_

I could feel my voice shaking a little, but it was okay. Even though I knew Mr. Fitzgerald was listening, that didn't matter. I sang both verses before opening my eyes again and pausing the track. Mr. Fitzgerald was actually staring in astonishment, which did make me squirm a little.

"Holy shit," he said. "I mean, sorry, I shouldn't say that at school, but — wow. You're _really_ good."

"Thanks," I said softly, and smiled. "I knew you would get it, about music."

"Yeah, I do." He blew out a breath, sitting back in his chair. "I'm just… sorry, I'm having a weird _déjà vu_ moment. Except in reverse. And you're way, way better than I ever was."

I nudged the iPod toward him. "You said something about harmonies?"

Mr. Fitzgerald's eyes did that twinkly thing. It made me feel a little giddy. "Definitely."

I left my headphones off this time, but I could hear the track well enough with them around my neck to hear both Mr. Fitzgerald and Clapton singing together. He went up and I went down, and we flanked Clapton with parallel thirds and sixths that sounded outstanding. It was almost too good to cope with. Throughout the whole thing, I got to sit there and watch Mr. Fitzgerald singing and watching me and smiling. He looked so impressed and proud, I didn't need any words from him at all.

He gave me some at the end, anyway.

"Roderick, you've got some talent there." He shook his head. I wanted to interrupt him, to say _it's not about that,_ but he went on. "I just want you to know, this isn't about me discovering you or encouraging you to do… anything at all, really. I don't need you to sing. I don't even need you to talk." He shrugged, kind of helplessly.

"What do I need to do, then?" I asked.

"Be you," he said. "You know? You're great. Just the way you are."

I think he could tell I had no idea what to do with that idea, because he took his headphones off and set them on the table. He tapped the list I'd written out.

"Maybe we can do more tomorrow," he said.

I nodded. Mr. Fitzgerald opened his notebook and started writing. He didn't say anything about me leaving, but after a few minutes, I got up and packed my things into my backpack.

"Thanks," I said. It was so inadequate, so small, compared to what I was feeling inside, I was almost angry. _I've never had a feeling like this before. What if this is the only time I have it? How can I get it again? How selfish am I that I don't think I can live without it anymore?_

I went back to class and did all the things I usually did in silence. Nobody bothered me. My teachers gave me the space I needed to work alone. I didn't even consider asking them to change that. I liked being alone. It was so much easier.

* * *

_There are lots of tricks to try to get people who don't talk to talk. I think I've read five or six dozen articles about them. Most of them are for stutterers, though, not for kids like me. I don't stutter, or at least I haven't. I use gestures, writing, texting, eye contact, all of those things. I hate watching myself, so any tricks where I have to see myself kind of backfire. My mom won't put me on drugs, the anti-anxiety kind. Sometimes I think about asking her if I can try them to see if they'd help. Maybe when I'm a little older._

_She's been on antidepressants since my dad died. I worry about her as much as she worries about me. Moving here, where she can be close to my aunt Joyce, I think was a good idea. Good to get away from Columbus. That was the worst. She'd come home from work and just cry because she'd have to pass that place where he got shot, every day. Yeah, she was there when it happened. _

_No, I don't hate Chicago. There's a lot of it I don't know yet, but I kind of like how it feels to be in the middle of the city, all the people around, doing their thing. Sometimes I get on the bus and just ride wherever I want, get off and walk around, see what's there, and then get back on the bus and head home. Yeah, you should try it some time. _

_Lonely? (pause) I guess? (longer pause) I'm not sure I would know. I mean, I don't think I've ever been any other way._

_\- from transcripts of Roderick's counseling sessions with Sean Fitzgerald, West River High School, Chicago, fall 2013_

* * *

_What'll you do when you get lonely  
__And nobody's waiting by your side?  
__You've been running and hiding much too long.  
__You know it's just your foolish pride._

_Layla, you've got me on my knees.  
__Layla, I'm begging, darling please.  
__Layla, darling won't you ease my worried mind._

_I tried to give you consolation  
__When your old man had let you down.  
__Like a fool, I fell in love with you,  
__Turned my whole world upside down._

_Layla, you've got me on my knees.  
__Layla, I'm begging, darling please.  
__Layla, darling won't you ease my worried mind._

_Let's make the best of the situation  
__Before I finally go insane.  
__Please don't say I'll never find a way  
__And tell me all my love's in vain_

_\- Eric Clapton, "Layla"_


	4. Chapter 4

Ben woke with a start, fumbling for the ringing phone in his lap. He put it to his ear, squinting at the clock. It was just after eight-thirty. "Yeah?"

"_This is… Ben Roscoe?"_

"Speaking. Who's this?"

There was a pause. _"It's Sean. I saw you in the drugstore the other night. You gave me your card."_

"I give out a lot of cards. No, wait, I know you. You're the guy who whaled on Eli. I'll tell you, I owe you one for fingering him." He sat up, completely awake now. "What can I do you for?"

Another, longer pause. _"That thing you said, about being lonely. You were right. I don't have any friends, and… I kind of can't have any. But I was thinking, in your line of work, you might know something about being discreet."_

"My boys don't kiss and tell," said Ben. "You tell me what you want, I can give you somebody who'll do it for you."

"_No,"_ he said, sounding exasperated. _"That's not what I — I meant to talk. To you."_

He didn't sound desperate or anything, but Ben could hear the strain in his voice. He stood up, stretching. "Yeah, of course. Like I said before, we've got space here. It's private; nobody will say they saw you."

"_I don't know if I feel comfortable talking at a place like that."_

"Oh, thank you very much," he said wryly. "You got hangups about sex?"

"_Not actually very many. I have hangups about taking advantage of teenagers and making them sell their bodies for money."_

"Your honesty is refreshing." Ben yawned. "I gotta tell you, man, it's been a long night already. Two of my boys ended up having run-ins with clients that brought up all kinds of shit."

"_Another night, then."_

"No, I'm not blowing you off. I just don't think I'm up for a night out. If you can set your rigorous morals aside long enough to meet Celia at the door —"

"_Celia?"_

"The drag queen who screens the clientele. She'll remember you from last time. You got your heart set on alcohol, bring it along, 'cause I don't have any here. You remember where it is?"

Sean sighed. _"Yeah, I remember. All right."_

Ben let Celia know to expect him, then took a shower and changed his shirt. By the time Sean arrived, he'd picked up most of the take-out containers and dirty clothes. Sean waited in the hallway while Ben set the bag of trash out for pickup. He didn't have any beer with him — anything at all, actually.

"What is this place, anyway?" Sean asked.

"It ain't glamorous," said Ben, holding the door open, "but it's not too bad. There's heat and running water, most nights. I rent the first three floors of rooms."

"All of them?" Sean picked his way across the floor to the chair by the window, his judgment clear on his face. "How many boys do you have working for you?"

"Enough to fill all the rooms. They don't live here; they got their own lives outside this, which is the way it should be. We'll stay here until it don't make sense anymore."

"You mean until you get caught." He sat across from Ben.

Ben laughed. "Oh, they know about me. I've got a kind of don't-ask-don't-tell relationship with Chicago vice. I know if I get one complaint, they'll shut me down."

Sean sat there, stiff and obstinate. Ben let him stew. It wasn't like he'd never had this conversation with anyone before.

"I'd be the first one to say kids should be allowed to make their own mistakes," Sean said at last. "I did a lot of _adult_ things when I was still pretty young, and my mom let me do them. But you can't really think it's okay, what your — your employees are doing? The two you told me about, it sounds like they got hurt."

He put his feet up on the edge of the couch. "They were okay, both of them. They just needed a chance to boo-hoo and have a couple hours to themselves before moving on."

Sean frowned. "Very sensitive of you."

"Hey, it's not like I don't care about them," said Ben. "I get what they're going through. Believe me, I started turning tricks when I was twenty. But this line of work has tons of fucking emotional triggers — second only to the military. Am I right?" He waited until Sean looked away. "Yeah. So I get to play the therapist and the shoulder to cry on every now and then. But I can't be Mama Ben all the time. I only got so many hours to myself to get the business side of things taken care of."

"Business," Sean repeated.

"Illegal business is still business," said Ben. "but I run it clean. Just like my boys: no drugs, no underage, no unprotected nothing, no non-con. I keep them out of the worst shit, and I pay them most of what they earn. It's a better deal then they'll get anywhere else, I can promise you that." He gestured at Sean. "So you here to tell me your story or what?"

Sean fell quiet. Ben waited there for a while before he got up and walked into the bathroom, filling up the electric tea kettle. He ripped open a packet of instant coffee.

"How about I tell you, then?" he called. "Clean-cut midwestern jock gets disillusioned with life and joins the service, only to discover it ain't exactly what he expected. Sound about right?"

Sean was smiling faintly when he returned. "Now who's making judgments?" He shook his head when Ben held up the cup. "No thanks. I hate coffee."

He nodded. "You want to tell me what I got wrong, or do I have to keep guessing?"

"I think I'm going to have to work backwards for it to make any sense." Sean laced his fingers together, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. "There's a kid at the school where I'm working. His diagnosis is selective mutism. You know what that is?"

Ben poured a packet of sugar into the cup and stirred. "I'm guessing it's something about not being able to talk."

"Yeah, that's right. Only it's the kind of diagnosis therapists give when they've ruled out anything physical. It doesn't mean anything. It's just a collection of related symptoms. The treatment is up to the therapist. He's had all of them." Sean huffed quietly. "A lot of them."

"You're a therapist?"

He shook his head. "I'm in college to be a counselor. Kind of. This internship… well, I'm totally not qualified to help this kid, but there's no way the Chicago public schools are going to help him either. I've seen his file; he's already had some really creative, caring people helping him out, and they haven't made any headway."

"Okay." He added a second sugar packet. "Sounds pretty hopeless."

"I don't think so. But that wasn't actually my point. Listening to him, watching him struggle with _not_ talking… I can relate to that. It's been a while since I talked to anybody about anything."

"How long's a while?"

"Over a year." He sat up a little, cracking his back. "More than that, really. It's been a long time since I was honest with anybody."

"Sucks to be you," said Ben cheerfully. "The way I see it, Sean, you're being a wuss. You got people who want to hear what you have to say? Go tell them. They might yell at you, sure, but you're already better off than most of the guys in this building."

"I can't."

Ben leaned forward and patted Sean's knee. "Yeah, you can."

"No," said Sean. "I can't. I'm in witness protection. I can't tell anybody anything."

"Oh." Ben withdrew his hand. He stared at Sean. "Fuck. Okay."

"He — the assailant was captured in July. They had me in Texas before this, but…" He let out a laugh that bordered on hysterical. "I _hated _Texas. I'm still not permitted contact with my family or anybody until after the trial, but once they downgraded my threat status, they let me choose my location."

"Threat status." He swallowed. "You were in danger. Your family?"

"Yeah. My boyfriend. I received direct threats, to me and to him, and it was — a private situation."

"Yeah, I can see why you'd want to keep things quiet, then." Ben let out a sigh. "Jesus."

"I wasn't so careful at the beginning, believe me. I thought I could stay in touch with people and do it safely? What a joke. As soon as I was caught, they moved me to Houston." He shrugged. "Anyway. When they told me I could pick where I ended up this time, I came here."

"Why here?"

"Because there were two people I needed to see, and they're both in Chicago. One was Eli."

"Yeah, you said. He sold drugs to your friend." Ben watched Sean's face change, growing tight and rigid with fury. "Was that your boyfriend?"

"Kind of. I mean, yeah. My — that wasn't the word we used, but that's close enough." He looked at Ben now. "You think they might charge him?"

"Hey, don't ask me. I ain't a cop. I don't even watch cop shows on TV, or military movies. When I finished basic training, I knew I wasn't going back." He shuddered. "Really not my thing. But you, you're — what, special forces?"

"I'm still on active duty," said Sean quietly. "So maybe you'll understand why I'm not going to say anything more about that."

He got up and paced across the small room, away from the window and back. Ben watched him, sipping his coffee.

"You said there were two people you needed to see. Who was the other one?"

It took Sean a little while to answer. As Ben waited, it occurred to him that _Sean_ probably — no, almost definitely — wasn't the guy's name. He wondered if he could ask what it really was. It wasn't like Sean was the only person ever to take on a new identity, but this one wasn't exactly by his choice.

"It's the boy," said Sean. "At my school."

"Why him?"

Sean shook his head. "I think I've said enough for one night."

"Hey, of course. No problem." Ben stood quickly, aware once again of the difference in height between them. He held out a hand to Sean, and Sean looked at it for a long moment before clasping it in a quick handshake. "You kind of did a hard thing just now."

"I used to be really good at it," said Sean, sounding regretful. "Talking things out. Being honest. _No lies, no hiding._ That was our rule."

"Sounds like a good rule." He was a little surprised to hear it, coming from such a secretive guy. "Maybe someday you can use it again."

Sean let his hand go. His eyes were glistening. "Yeah, I don't think so. Thanks again, though. This was… just, thanks."

He didn't let go of Ben's hand right away, not before Ben felt the spark leap between them. Ben was pretty sure Sean felt it too, but he wasn't going to say anything, not with Sean in this condition. If Sean had been one of his boys, he would have hugged him and given him the night off, with strict orders to do only easy, relaxing activities for the rest of the evening.

"So no wife at home, then," he said. "Nobody at all, I'm guessing."

Sean shook his head. "Probably just as well."

"Well, you think you could go home and take care of yourself, then? Maybe eat something that sounds good to you? Watch a mindless show on TV?"

He let out a startled laugh, looking down into Ben's face. "That's kind of… yeah, I think I could do that."

Ben was pretty sure he could have said, _stay here tonight, and I'll take care of you. _Maybe he could have gotten Sean to do it, but in the moment, he wasn't at all sure that would be the right thing. He just nodded and watched Sean disappear down the hall.

Thinking about it gave him some good fantasy material, though. He followed his own advice, getting under the covers, switching off the lights, and put the television on low, letting his hands and imagination fill in the empty space in his bed.


	5. Chapter 5

_(Author's note: This chapter is set shortly after chapter 3 of Dark and Dangerous Like A Secret, which used to be chapter 24 of Fingers of Your Fire. That's the chapter in which Toby brings Wade, aka Unique, aka Katie, to her first P-FLAG meeting, and they meet Chris, aka Holly Holliday. It's really nice to be able to write this bit of backstory. I'll return to 2013 in chapter 6. -amy)_

* * *

"I used to want to get everything right... then I got punched in the face." - Holly Holliday, Glee episode 2x07 The Substitute

* * *

Spring 2010 (about a year and a half before chapters 1 and 3)

I liked it when my mom would drop me off for an appointment with Chris and let me walk up the three flights of stairs to his office by myself. She was pretty good at letting me do grown-up things like that.

"Seventh grade is the beginning of being grown-up, Ricky," she told me. "I know you're not a little boy anymore."

Chris treated me like an equal, too, and I appreciated that. Not all therapists were that respectful of kids. I was almost as tall as he was, and a lot bigger. It was strange to begin to realize there were _grown-ups_ who were smaller than me.

Today he met me at the door and beckoned me in, smiling.

"I have a new communication tool for you today, Ricky," he said. "Something I think you'll like. C'mon over here."

Chris made room for me to sit behind his desk. I watched as he logged into his computer and opened a web browser window.

"You might remember I told you about this online discussion group me and my colleagues created for the kids we see in our practices? We wanted to have a safe place where kids could talk about their lives. These are all kids we know in real life, and it's only for them, no adults other than me. Can I show you how it works?"

He gave me plenty of wait time, long enough that I could have shaken my head or signed no. Chris didn't always make me say _yes,_ but he always listened to _no._ This time I nodded.

The screen looked a little like Facebook without any ads. I could see some words at the top, then a box labeled _What's Up?_ underneath with a drop-down menu. Under that was a chat feed with a series of icons indicating there were two other people online. Chris used the trackpad to change his _What's Up?_ status to _Inquisitive._

"You can type in your own if you don't like the choices," he said. He rubbed his chin, thinking, then typed in the chat box beside his icon: _We've got a visitor, and he's got a good story to tell._

I shook my head vigorously. Telling my story wasn't something I was ready to do with strangers. But Chris said, "It's not what you think, Ricky. Keep reading." He pointed at the screen, where I could already see a response from someone named Jake: _that means you're gonna make us tell ours first right_

_Bingo,_ typed Chris. He indicated Jake's icon, which had the word_ Mellow_ beneath it. "He's in seventh grade too, and he's in a good space for sharing. I won't expect you to tell anything you don't want to tell, Ricky, but this is a good way to start, asking questions. Just remember the affirmations apply here, too - and these folks will call you on it if you don't use them."

Chris's affirmations were kind of like rules, the ones we used when we talked with him or in the groups he ran. He made us recite them all the time, and they were posted all over the place in his office. There were only three:

1\. I'm not here to fix myself or anyone else.  
2\. I strive to balance being positive with being honest.  
3\. I've got a voice and I'll use it.

Chris gestured for me to take the keyboard. I hesitated for a moment, then placed my fingers on the keys and typed, _I'm Ricky. Are there any questions I shouldn't ask?_

Chris laughed. "Safe beginning."

Someone named Katie answered, _You've heard that thing about there's no such thing as a dumb question? That's totally wrong. There are lots of those. But I think you get some free passes when you're new. I'm still pretty new myself._

"Katie's a ninth grader," said Chris, "but this year was bad enough for her that she'll be schooling at home next year."

"Bad how?" I asked.

"You'll have to ask her."

_That's nice to hear,_ I replied to her. _Being new doesn't usually come with free passes._

_Here it does,_ Jake said. _ill go first. im sitting at my kitchen table eating a big slice of homemade bread. an hour ago I was sweating like crazy working on this routine toby threw at me. in an hour ill be done recording this weeks video post._

While I considered this, Katie replied, _Say more about the bread._

_Whole grain with a crunchy crust. Sarah made me a loaf. _

"You can ask for clarification about something, or more about anything, or make a related comment," said Chris. "Or you take a turn, if you want."

I typed, _What do you record in your video?_

_I have a youtube channel where I dance. jazz, ballet, mostly freeform. my teacher makes me do some standard stuff too_

_That's so cool,_ I told him. I grinned at Chris, who smiled back. I wondered who Sarah might be, if she was a relative, or maybe his girlfriend, but I'd already asked something, so I thought maybe I should wait for somebody else to talk.

_What was hardest today? _Katie asked.

_I have to see my dad tomorrow. thinking about that was hard. that was worse than the six people who called me fag at school._

I thought it might be kind of rude to ask if what they called him was true or not. I didn't actually care either way, but it seemed to me there was something particularly awful about being mislabeled.

_I'm sorry,_ I tried.

Katie gave Jake some _*virtual hugs,*_ which seemed a little dorky but still made me wish I knew somebody well enough that they might want to give me some, too.

_I'll go,_ Katie said. _I'm doing my math homework while listening to Private Dancer at my desk in my room. An hour ago I was taking my makeup off before my mom got home. In an hour I'll be eating dinner with my folks, trying to justify watching Idol for the millionth time._

_You have to justify watching Idol?_ I asked.

_My parents are engineers. They think I'm a little weird because I sing in the shower. Girl, they don't know the half of it._

Chris leaned his chin in his hand and gestured at the screen. "You get the idea?"

I held my breath for a moment, then typed, _My dad thinks I'm weird for singing in the shower, too._

"That's it," Chris murmured. I was never sure whether to cringe away from Chris' encouragement or beg for more, but this felt uncharacteristically gentle.

_Do you sing out of the shower?_ I added.

_Only every other minute of every day! _Katie said, at the same time that Jake replied, _only under pain of death._

_I sing more than I talk,_ I said. _Which isn't all that much to begin with._

That was more than I was used to disclosing. It felt suddenly very scary to be talking to these people. I pushed back from the keyboard with a shaky sigh.

Chris patted my arm briefly. "You done for today?"

I could see that Katie had replied with the question, _What do you sing?_ and Jake had added, _I guess I like singing, but not when people are telling me what to sing._ Part of me wanted to tell Katie about Elvis Costello and Jimi Hendrix and the Stones, and find out more about Jake's dancing, but I nodded. I was done.

Chris wrote a quick goodbye message. "You did great. Anything else you want to tell them before we go?"

I nodded again. "I'll be back," I whispered.

* * *

As soon as Chris set up an account for me, my mom said I could log in from our computer at home. It didn't take long to meet all of the kids in Chris's therapy group. Some of them used fake names, and some of them stuck with real ones, but the things they shared were all real.

One of the things people didn't talk about was why they'd each gone to therapy to begin with. Sometimes it was obvious — Jake's anger was pretty quick to flare up — but with other people it was harder to tell. I decided I'd follow the culture of the group and not explicitly talk about my diagnosis. They knew I didn't talk much, but because I talked to _them,_ they didn't understand how this never actually happened in any other setting. It felt wonderful to both have something to say and to be able to say it.

Pretty soon, I was hurrying home from school every day to log in and talk to my friends. Having friends at all was a little startling, but it felt so good, I was barely scared at all.

I liked most of them, but I found myself especially gravitating toward the other kids like Katie and Jake who understood music. There was a boy who called himself Ry who'd started seeing Chris way back in 2008. He wasn't around as often as some of the others, but hearing him talk about playing guitar and playing football with equal enthusiasm helped me remember not to judge people based on stereotypes. Jocks needed people to talk to, too.

I kept seeing Chris in person throughout the spring, once a week on Tuesdays. By that time, I was able to have full, out-loud conversations with him. But the day Chris came into the office with a black eye and a green bruise on his cheek, I was shocked back into silence.

"I want to explain what's happening with me, Ricky," he said, "and why I have this lovely decoration on my face. But I want to start by telling you I'm moving to Lima in a couple weeks. This won't be our last session, but I won't be able to keep seeing you every week."

I had no idea how to speak the questions my heart was asking. I just nodded and waited.

"It has nothing to do with you, or your parents. I've adored the chance to get to know you and your family. Yes, even your father." His grin was gently teasing. That, at least, felt familiar, and I relaxed a little. "But you might be aware of certain changes in my own gender expression. The way I present myself as male or female or other." He waited, watching me quizzically. When I shook my head, feeling confused, he shrugged and went on. "I'm still amazed by others' perceptions of me. Well, until now, I've gone by Chris, and presented myself as male. I started the transition from male to female a couple years ago, but it's been a long one. Some of my clients' parents have informed me they don't think it's healthy for me to alter my gender presentation. They don't want their children around me." He touched his cheek gingerly. "I had a disagreement with one of them yesterday."

"That's not fair!" I burst out. "They can't be mad at you for who you _are. _It's your body. Nobody knows how you are inside but you."

Chris smiled. "I'm glad to hear you say that, Ricky. Stick with that opinion, okay?"

I nodded, feeling almost too sad to talk without crying. "Should I call you "her" and "she" now?"

"If you like. I won't officially change my name to Holly until this summer, but if you're willing, you can be the first person to call me that."

I hesitated. "That's a big deal."

"It is," she said solemnly. "But I trust you with that. And since I won't be your therapist anymore, can I give you a hug?"

That sounded pretty great to me. We both cried a little, but that was okay too.

Before my mom came to pick me up, Holly assured me that I would still have access to the online discussion forum. "I'll keep it up indefinitely," she said. "At least until the software stops working. It's kind of a dinosaur. And all of you are old enough to get Facebook accounts now, anyway."

I had a Facebook account, but I hadn't figured out how to make it feel even remotely as safe or important as the group was. I shook my head. "I want to stay there."

"You're so welcome, Ricky," said Holly. "It's your space as much as anyone's. With your help, we'll keep it going."

* * *

Holly didn't stop seeing me entirely, but as she got ready to move to Lima, most of my interactions with her became virtual. It wasn't uncommon to see her icon pop up in the discussion thread. The fact it now bore the name _Holly_ instead of _Chris_ didn't change the way I thought about her much.

Sometimes Holly would bring another visitor in to introduce him or herself, and I got the odd experience of being the one to welcome them. A new kid named Mar showed up later in spring. They talked about challenges with feeling uncomfortable with the gender they were given at birth, but they didn't specify what gender that was. I struggled with that for a little while, uncertain how to classify Mar in my imagination. But when it came down to that, I didn't know what _any_ of them looked like.

Mar and I had a lot in common, as it happened. They, and Katie, became the first ones I turned to when I was dealing with assholes at school or teachers who wouldn't let me "get away with" not talking.

One day near the end of the school year, Mar and Jake said they had an announcement to make.

_Which is weird to begin with,_ said Mar, _because it was only recently that I realized we both knew the same person. _

_Dude and its my freaking sister,_ added Jake.

I laughed loudly enough to disturb my dog's nap. Dexter glanced around the room to make sure there was no food before he put his head back down.

_How did you not realize Mar knows your sister?_ I asked.

_Because Jake and I don't even go to the same school, _Mar said. _And she's his half-sister, and they don't live together. But now I'm going to mentor her next year because she's skipping seventh grade! I am so excited. _

_We can totally tell mar,_ said Jake. I could almost hear the eye-roll. I put a hand down to scratch Dexter's head.

_I wish I could give you guys a big hug,_ I said.

Then I paused, rereading that sentence, and held my breath, waiting for the response. There were so many possibilities. Mar and Jake could blow me off, or laugh, or say _ew, are you kidding?_ If I'd ever made an offer like that in real life, to anyone, I was pretty sure what they would have said.

Mar and Jake's responses overlapped by seconds: _Virtual ones will have to do,_ and _get the hell over here ricky._

I clutched my own hands together and smiled while they imaginary-hugged me, hoping they could tell my non-response wasn't a bad one. I just couldn't think of anything to say. Then I looked up at affirmation #3 at the top of the screen.

_Thanks, that's awesome,_ I typed, more slowly. _I just hope you'd like me this well in real life._

_Sure if youd be willing to give a dancer geek with anger issues a chance,_ Jake wrote.

That was encouraging, but I liked Mar's response even better: _I like you too much to care about anything hidden behind these screens. This is real._


	6. Chapter 6

_(Author's note: Another Sean chapter from Ben's POV. I struggled mightily with this scene all week. It definitely tips me over past Mature into Explicit, just so you're aware - warnings for ass play and conversations about sex and prostitution. Ben is based on a smartass former Marine I dated in college. Roderick returns in the next chapter. -amy)_

* * *

Ben woke up at four in the afternoon on the first Friday of October to a garbled voice mail from Sean Fitzgerald. That was how it started, with his full name, and it just got worse from there: _"This is Sean Fitzgerald, and I'm not… you're going to think I'm — I mean, I don't need this. I don't. I really don't think it's a good idea, but I'm still."_ That was followed by a long pause and a frustrated sigh. _"Shit. If you're going to be around tonight, would you call me? It's not a big deal, just —"_ Another sigh. _"Never mind. Forget it."_

Ben had to listen to it a couple times to make sure he'd heard him right. By the third time, he was grinning.

"Stupid sonofabitch," he murmured. He touched his phone, still smiling, before heading into the shower.

It had been a while since he'd turned a trick, himself, but he knew how fanatical his boys were about waxing all over. He wasn't about to bother with that, particularly not when this evening was likely to turn out to be nothing more than another morose staring match with this-is-Sean-Fitzgerald. But he did do a little trimming. He also paid a visit to Celia.

"Can I get a haircut before anybody arrives?" he asked.

He didn't _tell_ Celia anything, no matter that he was her boss; he _asked_. She looked him up and down before pulling out her good scissors, the ones she kept in the padded black case, along with her comb and clippers.

"I hope it's not that girl you took out for New Year's?" she said, sitting him down on a chair. She combed through his hair and began snipping. "Because you can totally do better than that shit."

"It's not her." The quantity of thick dark hair that was already landing in his lap was alarming. Ben tried to put up a hand to feel what was happening and got his knuckles slapped. "Just a _little _off the top."

"I don't tell you how to run your whorehouse, mister—"

"The fuck you don't!"

"—and you don't tell me how to cut hair." She ran the clippers over the nape of his neck, trimming behind his ears. "That tattoo artist, then. Only didn't he move to Atlanta? He was hot."

"He got married first. And yeah, he was. Also had zero original thoughts. There's only so many times you can listen to a guy quote movies before you start to wonder why you're not just watching the movie instead of bothering to go on a date." He tried putting up another careful hand when she turned off the clippers. "And this isn't a date. Can I see…?"

"Oh, honey, any time it's _not a date,_ I know you're already picking out china patterns." She handed him the mirror, then rested both hands on his shoulders, giving his neck a squeeze. Ben made himself relax as he inspected her work. Of course it looked fine.

"Really no. In the dictionary under 'damaged goods,' you'd find this kid's picture." He stood up, letting Celia brush him off. "But he's full of conversation. He's kind of desperate for somebody to listen to him."

"Says the last one left standing at every party." She began to sweep up the locks of hair on the floor.

"That's just because I don't drink," he said. "Okay, maybe I like to talk. Your point?"

"Who said I was trying to make one?" Celia said calmly. "That'll be twenty plus tip."

It was probably still too early to call Sean back, but Ben had run out of good excuses. Sean picked up on the second ring and started talking before Ben even said hello.

"_Hey, you really didn't have to call, when I said never mind, I really meant —"_

"You sound like you might have a little too much in your system, my friend," said Ben. "Want to pause for a minute?"

"_A little too—? No. I don't do that." _

"Don't do what?"

"_Drugs. I don't take drugs."_

"I just meant that shit that builds up naturally, Sean. Thoughts, feelings, whatever? You have that." He waited, listening to him breathing. "You pick the spot. I'll meet you there."

"_You mean, like… a restaurant?"_

Ben suppressed a laugh. "Unless you're somehow the kind of creature who doesn't need to eat?"

The Boystown diner Sean named wasn't exactly a classy place, but the food there was pretty good. Ben checked in with Celia and the guy on security for each floor — he wasn't going to make the mistake again of assuming it was being taken care of in his absence — before heading to the subway.

Even through the plate glass window in the front, Ben could tell Sean was more calm than he had been on the phone. He looked a little startled when Ben slid into the chair beside him. After a moment, Sean nodded pointedly at the empty chair across the table, where the other napkin and plate were waiting.

"All the way over there? Aw, that'd be no fun." Ben rested a hand on Sean's thigh, just briefly, and smiled. "Unless you're looking to make small talk all night."

"I'm not looking to make — _anything."_ He didn't shift away from Ben's proximity, but Ben moved his chair back a few inches anyway.

"That's fine. I'm in the habit of being all hands. Just consider it harmless. My boys, they're all over each other like puppies. They're more like brothers, really. Lots of friendly touching. But if it makes you uncomfortable, I'll back off."

"Not uncomfortable. Not exactly." Sean shook his head. "It — it's just been a while."

"Since what?"

Sean dropped his voice to nothing. "Since I touched anybody at all."

"Familiar story," said Ben, nodding. "Everybody's got ways to deal with pain. I think most guys I know drink."

"Drink, yeah. I don't do that either." He touched his Coke.

"So what do you do?"

Sean's fingers curled around the plastic cup and he put it to his lips, taking a sip. "I deal with it. It's just one of those things."

"Pain?"

He shook his head. "This isn't pain. Pain's not so bad." He shot Ben a sideways smile, so quick Ben thought he might have imagined it. "Sometimes I like it."

"Oh, you do, huh?" Ben scanned all of Sean's visible skin. "Hmm. No piercings, not where I can see, anyway. You got tats?"

"One. But it was… for somebody else, a special thing. Not because of the pain."

"Mmm. So you do it yourself? Cuts, burns?"

"No!" Sean looked horrified. "I wouldn't do that."

"Come on, you're being awfully judgmental for somebody who says they _like pain._ Nobody's giving it to you. What do you do?"

He watched Sean huddle in on himself, small and miserable, like a wet dog.

"Nothing," he said. "I don't do — anything. I go to class, I work, I go home."

Ben relented. "All right. Lots of people do that every day, you know. Real life ain't exactly glamorous."

He smiled at the waitress when she brought him water, turning on the charm enough to get her to smile back.

"How about a cup of coffee?" he asked her.

"Sure," she said. Her eyes lingered on him, then moved to Sean, and back to him, questioning. Ben let his smile get more personal. She chuckled and walked away.

Now Sean was watching him. "You flirt with everybody, don't you?"

"Hey, you've got your height working for you. I've got these dimples and my personality. You use what you have." He ran his hand through his newly-short hair, seeing Sean's hand follow his motion with his eyes. "I gotta say, it's not just your height. You've got plenty more to use."

Sean blushed. It was artless, and so damn charming. "You, uh. You do, too."

"I do all right," Ben said, shrugging. That was a lie, of course. He did great. He knew exactly how much influence his face and his body earned him, every day, every conversation.

"It—" Sean spoke like the words were being dragged out of him. "It reminds me of somebody."

"The boyfriend Eli got to."

"Actually, no. Another guy. My — my best friend. He flirted with everybody too."

"Let me guess. He never knew how you felt until it was too late." Ben mapped the words above his head as he spoke them, like they were on a marquee.

Sean narrowed his eyes, holding his cup lightly between his fingers. "Look, whatever you think you know about me, you have no idea."

"I know, man. I'm just trying to get a rise out of you. I got it wrong? So correct me. Tell me how it really was."

Sean was silent. Ben blew out an exasperated breath and gestured at the diner around them.

"Look, who am I gonna tell? You think the mafia or whoever followed us to this place and is listening to what we're talking about?"

"No," said Sean. But the look on his face said _maybe. _It made Ben pause.

"You'd feel better if we weren't out here in public?"

He shrugged. "I think we might as well eat dinner, since we're here. Nothing suspicious about that."

The waitress came back and took their orders. Ben didn't bother to flirt this time. He was too distracted by what Sean had said. Could it be true? That guy, sitting by the counter in the baseball cap, eyeing them, could he actually be spying for some foreign enemy? What about the girl with the headphones on by the door? It was all too bizarre to consider.

When the waitress left, he touched Sean again, on the shoulder this time. "I'm sorry. I thought you didn't want to go out with me because — I don't know, something about being homophobic or whatever. I didn't even think about… that. We can go."

Sean smiled faintly. "No, it's probably good. Ordinary. People go out, have dinner. Flirt. They do that."

"But not you, huh?"

He didn't answer. They sat without conversation for several minutes and ate the food the waitress brought them. Now Ben kind of wished he had sat across the table. At least it would have been harder for Sean to avoid looking at him.

"Okay, well, if you're not gonna talk, I guess I'll do that. Hi, I'm Ben, I'm twenty-six. I grew up in Hammond, Indiana. My mom's still there. Youngest of three. Joined the Air Force out of high school. Currently reserves, with the 434th out of Grissom, in maintenance ops."

Sean looked interested despite himself. "You — what, fix airplanes?"

"Sometimes."

"My friend's in the Air Force."

"The one who flirts." Ben grinned.

"Yeah, him. He finished his tech skills at Lackland and moved on to Fort Lee for advanced culinary training." Even this wasn't a casual conversation. The pain was simmering there just under Sean's calm surface. But there was pride, too, and something Ben guessed was love. "Maybe you know him."

"Doubt it. Even if he trained at Hammond, I'm only there a couple weeks a year. Which is good. The chances of them deploying me are practically nil unless things get desperate."

"Yeah, I thought you said you were done with the military? Reserves doesn't sound very done to me."

He shrugged. "Well, it covers my mom's health insurance. I'm not willing to work a desk job. If it keeps her in a pretty good facility, I'll keep pimping myself to Uncle Sam two days a month."

Sean nodded, his expression sober. "She's sick?"

"Early onset Alzheimer's." Ben tapped the table with the tips of his fingers. "At least she'll never be able to be disappointed her son's a whore. She barely remembers me anymore. Any of us."

"I'm sorry." Sean looked honestly sad about this. _Fucking prince of charming._

"Yeah, well, it's not the last disappointment life's going to hand me. It's not all shit, either. I think I'm doing okay." He turned his most winning smile on Sean. "I'm here with you, aren't I?"

Sean tilted his head, considering him. "That's some line. I bet that really works on some guys."

"Even better on chicks," agreed Ben. "I almost feel bad about how easily they fall for it."

"Almost," he said, deadpan.

"Almost." Ben grinned. "I swear, I don't set out _trying _to manipulate anybody, but…"

Now Sean really was grinning back. "I've been there. There was this girl I dated all through high school…"

He let out a shout of laughter. "I don't believe it. There is no way _you_ ever manipulated anybody, Angel McInnocent."

Sean drew back in mock offense. "You so sure about that? I've done stuff."

"Not if you dated one girl all the way through high school."

Sean smothered his own laugh with one hand, then replaced it with a French fry. "I dated nine people in high school. Three of them all at once. And I lived with two of them."

"Lived with —? Okay, maybe not so innocent," Ben said, waving a hand. "Still. You're _nice."_

"I'm really not sure what that word means, man." Sean shook his head thoughtfully. "If you mean vanilla, I don't qualify."

"No?" Ben gave him a doubtful look. "You already told me you don't do anything."

"No, but I _did."_ He paused. "What, do you want a list?"

"I usually ask for one, sure. Try me. And believe me, I've heard it all, so don't pull any punches."

When Sean continued to hesitate, looking around the room at the sparse crowd, Ben turned his chair around and placed it directly beside Sean's, so that he was both right next to him and facing him. Now Sean was within even easier groping distance, but Ben kept his hands to himself.

"This feels a little like playing _I Never,_" muttered Sean. "But… well, guys, mostly. A couple girls, but I think I… no, I definitely have a preference."

"Top or bottom?"

Sean went red. "Both. Depended on the guy. But we had really awesome parents, and they let us do stuff at home, once we pointed out we were just going to do it in other places if they didn't. The three of us lived in the same house, for a couple years. We had, uh, lots of chances to do most things."

Ben shifted forward a little, enjoying Sean's discomfort. There was still sadness, yes, and regret, but also tension that pointed toward possibilities. "Most things?" he prompted.

"We had big beds. Pretty much every combination of three guys. Four, for a little while. And five, on special occasions." Sean leaned in closer, and Ben mirrored him. "We had a friend who ran a BDSM club. She gave us access to things. And I had a — a mentor. An older professional Dom who helped me figure things out, for me and my — the boys I was Topping."

"You." Ben couldn't help it. He raised both eyebrows. "Are you even twenty-one yet?"

"This coming January. So, yeah, it was mostly instinct, but it worked, for all of us." He smiled at something, a private memory. "I got really good training, though."

"What kind of training?"

"Safe protocol, aftercare, checking vitals, that kind of thing. And disciplinary tools, technique. I learned how to use a single-tail whip. I still practice."

"Of course you do." Damaged goods or not, this guy was sounding better all the time. Ben still kept his hands in his own lap, but he let his eyes rove over Sean, shamelessly lingering on the most interesting parts. "You're responsible, right? A leader? You played sports, I bet."

"Football and basketball. Not either of them well enough to get tapped for a scholarship."

"Yeah. And school stuff? Government?"

"No, that was my boyfriend. He ran for class president." Sean gave him that endearing half-smile. "I was prom king, though."

"Sure." _Jesus._ Ben adjusted his half-boner with no subtlety whatsoever. Sean watched him do it, then looked away quickly when he realized what was happening. "Three of you lived together, but you weren't out? And you were in high school. How'd that work?"

"It was because of our parents. They fell in love and got married. And my best friend's mom died, so my — our boyfriend's dad adopted him. And his sister. It's a long story." He shrugged. "Feels like a long time ago."

From the hungry look on Sean's face, Ben kind of doubted that. "But you haven't been out with anybody since?"

"Since April," he said. "Since just after my, um. My funeral."

Sean stopped talking after that, and his eyes landed on the table and stayed there. This was the last place Ben figured Sean wanted to break down crying. He took a few bills out of his wallet and threw them down next to their half-empty plates.

"Come on. They can sort out the tip without us. Let's go."

On the subway, they stood apart. Ben kept an eye on Sean, but he seemed to be holding his own. Still, Ben felt responsible for him — more, maybe, than he'd expected to feel.

At one of the stops, he worked his way around through the crowded car until he was beside Sean again.

"You want to call it a night?" he asked.

Sean gave it some thought. Then he shook his head. He still wasn't really looking at Ben, but Ben was familiar with that kind of not-looking. It was the kind that usually ended with really hot sex, if he could manage to keep the guy from bailing on him first.

He stepped backward toward the door. "Next stop is ours, then."

Sean stood when the door opened. He didn't follow Ben down the sidewalk so much as tail him. This went on for a few blocks, until Ben felt like he'd had enough of the silence.

"You're in Chicago why, again? It wasn't just to beat the shit out of Eli."

He remembered why, of course, and he guessed from the look Sean gave him, Sean knew he did. But Sean just said, "This boy. At my school."

"The one who doesn't talk."

"Him, yeah. He's starting to, though."

Ben nodded. "That's good?"

"Yeah. Except if he asks certain questions… I don't really just want to stop talking to him."

He had to wonder what the _certain questions_ could be. "Hey, you're the one who showed up at his school. Who's putting who at risk here?" It was probably the wrong thing to say, but Ben wasn't about to pull punches with this guy.

Sean didn't even glare. He just shrugged.

"I thought about it a lot, and I decided I had to tell him what I could. I had to make it right." He looked at his shoes as they walked. "I have a history of walking away from things that scare me or feel too hard. Maybe I'm just a coward."

"Yeah, probably."

Sean paused, stiffening. Ben wasn't one to squander an opening when it appeared. He reached out and tugged Sean's elbow toward him, until he was close enough for Ben to jerk him down into a kiss.

The seven-inch height difference didn't seem nearly so daunting up close, especially not when Ben dug his blunt nails into Sean's neck and heard him whimper.

"Poor lonely boy," he whispered into Sean's mouth.

"I can't do this," Sean said, but he didn't move away from Ben's hands or the press of his body.

"You're starving yourself. You suck it up, because you think you deserve it." Ben placed the flat of his palm against Sean's trembling stomach. "Nobody deserves to hurt every day, especially not when you can do something about it. That's punishment. Nothing good comes out of that. All punishment will do is make you more scared and alone."

Sean shook his head, more controlled than Ben would have expected. "You don't deserve to be nothing but a — a replacement."

He laughed. "You do know what guys like me do for a living?"

"Yeah," said Sean tightly, "and if I were paying you, it would be a different thing. But you bought _me _dinner. Is this a job or a date?"

Ben waited long enough to reply that Sean took a step backward, sighing.

"Hey," said Ben. "Relax. It's been a while since I did anything like this, too. Okay? I'm not screwing with you."

"The hell you're not," muttered Sean. He looked like he didn't know what to do with his arms. Ben finally grabbed them and made Sean wrap them around his waist, resting on his hips. Sean let him do that, let him get right in close with the heat of Sean's cock pulsing against his navel.

"Okay, so maybe you're right, that this ain't a job. Maybe I just like you." Ben ran fingers up the length of him through his jeans. "You gonna let me do that? Let me show you how much I like you?"

"Ben, I figured out a long time ago I don't like casual sex."

"How about friendly sex?" He gripped Sean's thick erection firmly in one hand, appreciating the way Sean responded. "Sure, I could just unzip you right here, say things into your ear, get you off in about thirty seconds. I could make you want it, no matter what you're saying." Then he let him go, pushing back with both hands. He didn't get very far, though, because Sean kept him there in the circle of his arms. "But how about we not make it about that? Can this be two guys who are usually pretty much alone being… a little less alone?"

"I don't know." Sean studied his grin, looking puzzled. "No, I'm saying I honestly don't. This could turn out to be a complete failure."

"Or it could be great. I'm okay with a risk like that. C'mon. A block and a half more. I'd rather not risk being arrested for public indecency."

Celia eyed them both as Ben let them in through the tiny front room with his key.

"Boys," she said severely.

"Nothing doing tonight, Celia?" Ben leaned over and took a peek at the log, sitting on the desk behind the scratched plastic window. "I'm not here, okay? The new boy in 203, he's not freaking out yet?"

"No, I've got Graham watching out for him." She turned to Sean and smiled sweetly. "What do you think of Ben's haircut, honey? He had me do that special for you."

Sean shot Ben a surprised look. Ben laughed, feeling the blush saturate his face.

"Smooth," he said to Celia. "After all these years, you can still find ways to embarrass me."

She smiled in satisfaction, patting his cheek. "That'll teach you to ask for a favor at five-thirty on a Friday."

"She cut your hair?" Sean asked, following him up the stairwell to the third floor.

"Yeah, welcome to grooming habits of queer rent boys. I even showered for you. Trimmed my toenails. I'm thoughtful that way." He ducked away from Sean's increasingly intense gaze. "What?"

"I don't know." He stumbled a little as Ben pushed him through the door. "You just… I don't know. You put some effort into tonight."

"If that's effort, I'm thinking your lovers haven't had very high standards." He took off his shirt, grabbing Sean's hand and putting it on his nipple ring. "So there's the Air Force best friend. Who else?"

Sean laughed uneasily. "You really want me to talk about them while we're… doing this?"

"Well, you made it clear where your heart is. They ain't gonna be far from your mind. Might as well get those thoughts out into the open where I can get off on them, too." He showed Sean how he liked it, tugging hard, and giving him a pleased hum when Sean obliged. "Yeah, you're not going to be afraid of making it hurt a little, are you?"

"Not if that's what you like." He let out a slow sigh, keeping his eyes on Ben's face. "I don't even know what I should call them anymore. My stepbrother… he and I haven't been together for a while. Not like we were."

"Stepbrother… that's kind of kinky." But he could see the pain coming, shadowing Sean's eyes. It wasn't going to be pretty. He slid off Sean's shirt and dropped it on the floor with his own. The small tattoo on his left pec would have escaped his notice if he hadn't been paying attention, but Ben was sure those tiny musical notes must mean something to him. He let it alone, moving his hands instead to Sean's belt, unbuckling it. "What happened? You guys break up when your friend went into the service?"

"No, he didn't enlist until after I was — until he thought I was gone." Sean was still watching him in bemusement. "You can slow down."

"Skin's better," Ben insisted, sliding Sean's belt out of its loops and discarding it. "For what's coming, anyway."

Sean didn't argue further while Ben stripped both of them. He brought Sean over to the bed, pulling the covers back. He was glad he'd thought to change the sheets.

"That was the three of you, right? You said three."

"Different three at different times. But they, the two of them, they left last year, went off to do their thing, and it was just me and… the fourth one." He let out an exasperated sigh. "I don't have names I can use. I haven't _talked_ about them with anybody."

"You can use their real names. I don't care. It's not like I'm going to —"

Sean was shaking his head. "No. No real names." He looked away. "I can barely say them in my head. But… the fourth one can be _Patrick. _And my stepbrother is _Griffin."_

"Whatever you say, _Sean."_

Sean sighed. His eyes closed, not in passion, but in something like exhaustion. Ben recognized that look, too. He paused, kneeling over him.

"Hey," Ben said, more gently. "I might have goals here, but I don't really want to push you into anything."

"No," he said, his eyes still closed. "I know what you're doing."

"Yeah? What's that?"

"You're trying to get me to let go. It's what I did with my boys. What my Top would do with me." He chuckled unhappily. "Maybe I got used to more drastic methods."

Ben stroked his hands down Sean's long torso, watching his skin prickle into goosebumps and his cock twitch. "Like what?"

"Bondage. Spanking. Psychological dominance." He hissed as Sean's hands tightened around his waist.

"I can tie you up and spank your ass, if you want that."

The smile Sean gave him was almost amused. Even through the hurt, Ben could see the humor on the other side. Something about it made his heart give an unexpected lurch. "I don't. Not from you. It only works if the person giving it really wants it, too."

Ben nodded. "So what _do_ you want?"

"I'm just thinking, if you're hoping I'm going to let go, _actually_ let go, you might be disappointed."

"Hey." Ben poked him in the stomach with an indignant finger. It made Sean protest. "I'm pretty fucking good at what I do. How about you let me do it and stop worrying about me?"

"Yeah, see, that only works if you're not planning to get anything out of this either."

His tone was so calm, so reasonable, that Ben had to laugh. He nudged Sean over to one side of the bed with his knee, lying down next to him. With one hand, Ben reached down and pulled the sheet up over them both, then tucked it back underneath the sheet to rest on Sean's bare hip.

"I admit I'm not used to making this kind of thing about me," said Ben.

Sean looked a little surprised to have Ben — well, _snuggling_ him, that's what it was — but he didn't move away. "I think if it's going to work at all, it has to be about you, at least a little." He put a hand up and carefully touched the back of Ben's neck, running his fingers over the newly-trimmed areas around Ben's ears. It made Ben's whole body tingle.

"Yeah," Ben said softly. "It is. At least a little. I wouldn't have paid for dinner if it hadn't been."

Sean smiled. If Ben had thought it was charming from a foot away, at a range of three inches it was devastating. "You did. You bought me dinner. That was… really nice. Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

Ben edged closer on the pillow. As their lips met, his hand wrapped around Sean's cock. Sean let out a low noise. It sounded more desperate than happy.

"Yeah, I don't move slowly. Romance is kind of beyond me." He reveled in Sean's harsh breathing so close to his ear, the scent of him, the intensity of his need. "I'd call it being efficient."

Sean didn't respond in words, but he deepened the kiss and propped his knee up, giving Ben better access. When Ben skated his fingers lower, pressing inside him, Sean didn't object.

"You want me to fuck you, Sean?" he murmured.

"Don't," Sean said immediately. "Don't call me that. Not with — not like this."

"All right." Ben wasn't going to argue with him. Sean's eyes were open, casting around for something. When Ben dug under his pillow and came up with a condom, Sean shook his head.

"I want your fingers."

"There you go. I knew you had opinions about something." Ben kissed him once more, then reached over the edge of the bed for a latex glove and a tube of lube. They were stashed in his carefully vetted box of personal sex toys. They were't for work. Maybe he crashed here more nights here than not, but nearly all of them were solo. He worked the glove down over his wrist. "C'mon. Scoot down here."

Sean was remarkably flexible for a big guy, bringing his legs up to his chest and spreading himself wide. He sighed into the press of the first wet, slick finger, and didn't comment on a second one. When Ben hesitated before adding a third, Sean reached to pull him in for a kiss.

"More." His face was flushed and beaded with sweat. "I'm serious, you won't hurt me. Give it to me."

"You got it," said Ben, feeling a little light-headed himself. He didn't think there were many people who'd deny Sean when he asked for something like that.

He felt Sean's methodical relaxation as he added more lube and worked a third finger in, then the last one. Three fingers was just kind of silly without adding the fourth. Sean was holding very still, his eyes fluttering closed every few seconds.

"More," he said again.

He had to smile at Sean's demanding tone. "Yeah, no. The whole hand? You don't want to go there without a little preparation first."

"Did that. Before dinner. I'm cleaned out, I know what I'm doing."

Ben didn't stop, but he did slow down, watching Sean's face closely. "You're serious. Where'd a boy like you develop a taste for getting fisted?"

"From the man who taught me everything else." Sean let out a sound that would have been a laugh if it had sounded at all happy. "Took me a year to get to the point where he'd do it, and five months longer before I asked him for it."

"And now?"

Sean bared his teeth, the accompanying not-a-smile to go along with his not-a-laugh. "Now he thinks I'm _dead,_ along with everybody else in my life who means anything to me. So come on." He spat the words out like blood. "Do it."

Now Ben did stop. He carefully withdrew his fingers, dumping the glove on the floor. He shook his head at Sean's look of outrage. "No."

"No?" Sean demanded. "What the hell do you mean, _no?_ You're going to draw the line at _this?"_

"I'm drawing the line at fucking you up more," Ben said. He fended off Sean's ineffectual grab, knocking aside his hand and leaning on his chest. They were both breathing hard, neither one from effort. "You're not my trick. You're my date. You gotta believe me, man, getting you off is a lower priority than treating you with humanity."

"You think you know what I need?" Sean shouted. The sudden change in volume right in his face made Ben flinch, but he stayed where he was. "You're really denying me this because you're trying to take _care_ of me?"

"You're damn right I am. Somebody had better start doing it, seeing as how _you're _doing a pretty fucking bad job of it."

Sean struggled a little longer, but tears were already leaking out of the corners of his eyes, and Ben could see his grimace fragmenting his face. Finally Sean rolled away from him, burying his face in the pillow as he shook.

Ben held onto Sean from behind, planning to wait out the storm, but there were words coming out of him, words as angry and hurting as he was.

"You're not going to convince me it's better to try to feel something than to feel nothing. You'd better stop trying now. Whatever I'm still doing here, I've got one thing to wait for: a trial date, to get that guy behind bars. That's what's going to keep my family safe. And beyond that, I've just got more nothing. All right? That's all you're going to get from me."

Ben didn't know how to tell him _thank you_ for words like these. He could tell how much it hurt for Sean to even think them, much less say them. He wanted to thank him anyway, though, for whatever had brought Sean to the point where he could say them instead of keeping them inside for another six months.

"All right," Ben whispered. He leaned his chin on Sean's shoulder from behind, brushing his nose against Sean's ear. "All right, it's fine, it's all fine. Anything you got for me, it's okay."

Another minute passed in silence while Ben used all his tricks to calm Sean down, breathing with him, keeping it sensual without being sexual.

"This doesn't make any sense," said Sean. "What do you care?"

"Jesus, Sean, won't you give me a chance to try?" Ben wanted to shake him, but he just held him tighter instead. "You said you didn't do casual. Here's my version of _not doing casual._ You think your life's over? Let me show you it's not."

"It's going to hurt."

"Obviously," said Ben. But Sean shook his head. He reached around himself to clasp Ben's arm in one strong hand.

"It's going to hurt _you,"_ he said. He sounded so sad. "It's what happens. I stick around; eventually, you're going to get hurt."

"Well." Ben swallowed the sudden lump in his throat. "Maybe I'm not into pain like you are, but… I think I figured out it was that way with you."

"You did?"

"Yeah. Since the first time you called me. And look at me, asking for it anyway."

He nudged against Sean with his hips, to let him know he hadn't completely abandoned the idea of making the evening a little less about words. Sean sighed.

"Hey," said Ben, "if I'm annoying you, you can tell me to stop."

"You're not. Nothing you're doing is annoying me." He turned his head to look at Ben over his shoulder. "It's scaring the crap out of me."

"Yeah, everything worth doing, yadda yadda." Ben kissed Sean's neck, his ear, but he kept his hands above the waist until he felt Sean's own hips buck back against him. "Okay if we try this again?"

"You still want to?" asked Sean doubtfully.

Ben nodded. As if the answer of his body weren't obvious. "Even if I won't handball you on the first date, I bet we can come up with something else worth doing."

* * *

Ben snuck out of bed around seven-thirty, shivering, and worked the weathered pane of wood and glass down in its frame. When he crawled back under the covers, Sean's eyes were open.

"I leave the windows open into December," said Ben. He shifted closer, and Sean gestured for him to move closer against him. He only complained a little about Ben's chilly toes. "Then I pay for it in the morning. Man, you're like a furnace."

"I always run a little hot."

"I wasn't sure if you'd be here in the morning, to tell you the truth."

"Well, that would be kind of a dick move." Sean shook his head. "No. I've been walked out on too many times for me to feel okay about that."

Ben rested in Sean's warmth for a while, drowsing, thinking about all the people who'd walked out on him, or he'd walked out on. He wondered if Sean had done the leaving, with Patrick or Griffin or — what was his name?

"Your best friend," he said suddenly.

"Mmm?" Sean rolled to look at him, his eyes far away.

"The one who flirts. What's his name?"

"Noah." Sean stopped himself, his eyes wide. "I mean — shit!"

"It's okay, Sean." Ben reached out and gripped his wrist, stopping what looked like it was going to be a full-scale freakout. "I won't tell anybody. I promise. It won't go beyond these walls."

"I can't believe I told…" He let his eyes close, exhaling. "Jesus. I'm sorry."

"Hey, it's no difference to me what I call you. I might as well use whatever names you're most comfortable with."

Sean nodded slowly. "I think it would be safer if I… if I used the ones I gave you. I don't like doing it, but…"

"It's fine," Ben said. He reached out and tugged Sean closer, into his arms. It felt ridiculously good. For several minutes, they stayed right where they were.

"You're Ben, though?" asked Sean. His voice came out a little muffled, and for a moment, Ben wasn't sure if he'd heard him right.

"My name's Ben, yeah," he said. "I was Benjamin until I turned four, or Benny, but that's my name."

"I wasn't sure." Sean sat back a little, propping himself up on one elbow as he wiped his eyes. Ben hadn't even realized he'd been crying. "Noah… he changed his name in seventh grade. I had a hard time using the new one for a while, but I could see how it made him feel better. Safer." He shook his head. "But when I have to use a fake name, or call somebody by one, it always feels wrong."

Ben smiled. He brushed a hand over Sean's face. "You wanted to make sure I was giving you the right name?"

"Just that it was the one you wanted to use."

"I've got plenty of boys who changed their names when they came to work here. But I never felt like I needed to do that." He shrugged. "I don't know why. It's not like I _don't_ have anything to hide."

Sean tilted his head. The way he was examining Ben made him blush in a way that all the enthusiastic sex had not.

"Maybe not, though," said Sean. "Not like they do. I think you're… _you._ Pretty much all the time. Right?"

"You are, too, though," said Ben. "Even with the hiding and the names. I could see it from day one."

He couldn't help it; Sean was too close, and his mouth was right there. Ben kissed him, and Sean didn't seem to care that neither of them had brushed their teeth yet that morning.

"There's a code that says we don't call our johns," Ben said. "No matter how much we liked them. But I'm telling you now, I'm going to call you."

Sean nodded solemnly. "Well, that answers that question. It was a date."

Naked, with their lips on one another's skin, it was a fucking absurd thing to say. They both started to crack up at the same moment. Sean pressed his forehead into the crook of Ben's neck as he struggled to stop laughing. It took a couple tries.

"Yeah, l think you could safely say this was a date," said Ben.

"You think you might want to have another one?" he asked. His face was wonderfully shy.

"Absolutely," Ben declared. "Fuck the 48-hour rule. Get yourself a spot on my social calendar before it fills up."


	7. Chapter 7

_(Author's note: you might want to check out these news articles before reading on. _

**tinyurl dot com slash mdkbsfy**

_Warning in this chapter for discussion of death of the two minor OCs mentioned in the first article. -amy)_

* * *

Ms. Lauer smiled at me when I pushed open the door to the counseling office after lunch. She beckoned me toward her with one finger, sorting through some papers with the other hand. I'd really been hoping for the solitude of the conference room, but I wasn't going to be rude to her, so I came over.

"Mr. Fitzgerald is finishing up lunch," she said, "but he told me to give you this if you happened to drop in." She held out an iPod. "He won't be much longer."

"Thanks," I said quietly. Her face didn't show a reaction, but her eyes brightened as I spoke. It made me feel warm inside, but uncomfortable too. It had been easier when I wasn't talking to _anyone_ at school. At least then no one had expected anything from me.

"You're taking the PSAT on Thursday?"

I nodded. Testing wasn't a big deal. This school was a joke, but I was willing to jump whatever hoops I had to get through to make it easier for my mom to send me to college. If I could get a good enough score on the test, that might mean a National Merit scholarship.

She smiled. "Well, good luck. I hope it goes well."

This was getting weirder by the minute. Ms. Lauer didn't usually talk to me, and it was obvious she was busy, sorting through a second stack of papers. Finally she held out a forestalling hand with a smile of triumph.

"I knew I had it here." Deftly, she tugged a stapled packet of sheet music out from the middle of the stack without disrupting any of the papers on top. She handed it to me. "There."

I recognized the song by the title, though I'd never played it myself. I raised my eyebrows at her, trying to convey an appropriate amount of confusion and curiosity about why she was giving me sheet music.

Before she could explain, Mr. Fitzgerald's office door opened and a man stepped out. Mr. Fitzgerald paused when he saw me, but the man kept going, heading for the back door.

"I'll call you tonight," said the man. He was shorter than average, with a handsome face and the kind of perfect thick wavy hair that you mostly only saw on television. Mr. Fitzgerald nodded, giving him an awkward wave that ended almost before it began.

I could see Ms. Lauer smiling into her paperwork. I tucked the sheet music into my bag, but kept the iPod in my hand. When Mr. Fitzgerald moved into the conference room, I joined him.

He definitely seemed distracted, not even saying hello to me, but I was itching to ask about the iPod. It was a strange feeling to know I had more words at the moment than Mr. Fitzgerald did. I wasn't going to say anything about the man, or ask who he was or why he'd been in Mr. Fitzgerald's office in the middle of the afternoon. I had the sense it had been a personal visit.

At last I put the iPod on the table, casually enough that it didn't have to be an offer. With an effort, Mr. Fitzgerald focused on it. Then he looked at me.

"What happened this morning?" he asked. "In the hallway? I heard Mr. Kettering having a conversation with Trip Gonzales in his office afterward."

I shrugged, tugging the headphones closer around my neck. The way Mr. Fitzgerald watched me do it made me feel even more self-conscious about it. _Yeah, I know, it's stupid not to want to take them off. Please don't make me talk about it._

"I can just read the report, but I'd rather hear it from you."

I nodded. "My shirt," I said. I looked down at it. I liked this shirt, with its cheerful black and red pattern, but hearing Trip's jeering tone in my head made me wish I'd chosen something a little more Chicago-appropriate.

"You can wear what you want. There's no dress code."

I shrugged again, shifting uncomfortably. I hadn't expected an inquisition today. Usually Mr. Fitzgerald left me alone.

"Something about how an ambassador's son should dress more prep and less cowboy," I said.

It wasn't completely untrue. My dad would have been just as displeased with my choice of clothing. I wasn't surprised to find out Trip knew who my dad was, either; my aunt had told us there had been news articles and television coverage about the incident in the Chicago press, too.

Mr. Fitzgerald's face was mild, not mad. "He's seriously not cool for picking on you. He thinks he's going to get away with it. He'll do the detention Mr. Kettering gave him — and then he'll go right back to it again tomorrow. But I'll tell you what: if you stand up to him once, I bet he'll stop."

I couldn't help it. I scowled at my lap. "No, thanks."

"No, I mean it." Mr. Fitzgerald shook his head. "I was that kid, once. Me and my best friend, we both were. We were seriously dicks to everyone, most of freshman and the beginning of sophomore year."

My eyes shot back up to his face. He was almost smiling, but it wasn't a happy expression.

"No way," I demanded.

"No, really. We harassed other students, called them names. We threw this one kid in the dumpster every day for weeks."

My mouth was hanging open. I closed it. "Why?"

"I told you. We were dicks. Big, stupid dicks. I think when you're popular, it's like you forget that being a human being is more important than following the rules of the group." He leaned forward intently. "You tell him that. _Trip, you're being a dick."_

"I can't say that," I said.

"Say it to me, then. Say it to tenth-grade me. You'd be right. _Mr. Fitzgerald, you were a dick."_

I would have laughed at his calm instructions if I hadn't felt so terrified. "I can't," I insisted.

"Because you don't want him to be mad?"

"I — don't say things like that."

But even as I said the words, it occurred to me that there was no longer any chance of my dad exacting retribution for swearing. I could say anything at all, and he'd never hear me say it, no matter how loudly I said it or how filthy the curse. I sat there wondering why it had taken me this many months for me to realize that, while Mr. Fitzgerald waited.

"I hate to say it, Roderick," he said, and chuckled, rubbing his eyebrow, "but _dick_ isn't exactly a swear word to kids older than eight."

"My dad," I began, but stopped when I saw the stricken look on Mr. Fitzgerald's face. He sat back, still watching me.

"You said he passed away."

I nodded cautiously. In some ways, _that_ was easier to talk about than how things were with Greg Holmes and Trip Gonzalez at school. After the shooting, I'd been asked the same questions over and over again — in print, mostly, because I wouldn't talk to any of them — by lawyers and police officers and people I'd presumed to be psychiatrists. I took a deep breath.

"He was killed. Shot, in Columbus last spring."

Mr. Fitzgerald didn't appear to be shocked by this announcement, so I assumed he'd read my file or seen an article or something. He just looked sad — really sad, not just fake sympathy-sad.

"It must be really hard, you and your mom being without him."

It was, but not in the ways he probably thought. Suddenly I wanted to tell Mr. Fitzgerald everything about my dad, about his rules and his temper how he'd made it clear he hated so many things about me, and especially how guilty I felt for being relieved I didn't have to come home and deal with him every day.

Mr. Fitzgerald reached out and took the iPod from its spot on the table. "Did you listen to any of it?"

I shook my head. I wanted to, but I couldn't exactly start without permission. It was the kind of thing about which I could hear my mother saying, _just ask for what you want, Ricky, _and there was no way I could do that. I just waited where I was, hoping he'd let me have it.

Finally Mr. Fitzgerald picked up the headphone splitter and his earbuds and handed the iPod to me. I let out a relieved sigh, plugging my own headphones in alongside his, and setting it on shuffle.

While we listened together, I got out my math homework. He worked on one of the millions of forms school counselors seemed to have to complete. Mr. Fitzgerald's music collection was pretty much limited to eighties and nineties rock, but there were a few outliers. He had plenty of Clapton, and one Rolling Stones album, and the occasional P!nk and Lady Gaga song, plus the Adam Lambert he'd mentioned earlier. There was even some Katy Perry, which seemed especially out of place.

It wasn't like it was when we listened to my music. Mr. Fitzgerald didn't sing along at all, and the longer we listened, the more restless he got. I mouthed the lyrics without really singing them, or hummed along, but that was all. There were a couple tracks he skipped with no explanation: one dramatic solo piano piece, and one that started with a quiet guitar track.

When U2 came on, I noticed a change. I watched Mr. Fitzgerald's body language as he worked, the way his shoulders dropped and his breathing got easier. It was the same relaxation stuff Holly had always suggested I work on, trying to get my body to the point where I could talk. We both sang on the chorus:

_Is it getting better  
__Or do you feel the same  
__Will it make it easier on you  
__Now you got someone to blame  
__You say  
__One love  
__One life  
__When it's one need  
__In the night  
__It's one love  
__We get to share it  
__It leaves you baby  
__If you don't care for it_

Mr. Fitzgerald paused the song and let out a long sigh. "Man. This is a lot harder, listening to _my_ music."

I nodded. He sounded embarrassed. I wasn't sure what to do. But he was saying more, and I tried to pay attention.

"I haven't listened to any of it for — a while. Months. I don't even own any instruments anymore. I bet my parents sold my drum kit. I stopped singing, stopped making music."

I couldn't conceive of that. I didn't ask _why. _Whatever secrets he was keeping, they were clearly complicated.

"What did you do instead?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Did my homework. Watched TV. Went to the gym a lot. Tried to stay off the Internet."

I wasn't going to tell him I had found him on Facebook. His account had mostly been locked down, like I would expect from a teacher. His profile picture was an insignia of a football team I didn't know, and other than listing the names of his parents and the small town in Indiana where he'd grown up, there hadn't been a lot else.

_One life  
__But we're not the same  
__We get to carry each other  
__Carry each other  
__One_

We sang the rest of it together, but he was tense again and it was clearly forced. When the song was over, he unplugged the iPod and let his earbuds spill onto the table.

"That song reminds me of a friend of mine," he said. "He was a football player, and one summer when we were training, he got a spinal injury. Couldn't move anything below his neck. Pretty much the only things he could do were make jokes and sing. My girlfriend gave him singing lessons. They sang that song together. We did it later with our show choir."

_Show choir._ That hit me harder than _girlfriend_ did — even though him mentioning having one made me second-guess my thinking about the importance of the man in Mr. Fitzgerald's office earlier. That was why he had all the weird music in his iPod: he must have sang all that music with his show choir.

I reached for the iPod and, while he watched, thumbed through until I found the Lady Gaga song I'd seen earlier. Then I tipped the screen over to face him. I wasn't going to make him listen to any more of it, not when it was clearly hurting him to do it. But he smiled when he saw the title.

"Funny story there, too," he said. "Remember that guy we tossed into the dumpster every day? He worked up a performance of this song. A good one." He shook his head, still smiling. "He wasn't scared to be who he was, no matter what the dicks of the school were doing to him."

I couldn't help it. I snickered. "You say that word a lot."

"What, _dick?"_ Mr. Fitzgerald snickered, too. It almost felt like he was just a regular guy, like Jake or Mar or Ry, making a stupid joke. "Well, that's what we were. We were being dicks to him, me and my best friend. But it was just because we couldn't handle who he was." He stared at the iPod, his eyes soft and unfocused. "He was… brave. And smart. He was the one who figured out what was really going on."

"What?" I asked.

He smiled, still to himself, a private smile. Then he sighed, and laughed ruefully, tapping the iPod. "We were _born that way_ too. Maybe it was easier for us to hide it, because we were into sports and stuff, but… yeah." He looked up at me, then away, but not before I could see his eyes glistening. "That's too personal for school, maybe?"

"Maybe." But I shook my head. "I don't care, Mr. Fitzgerald. You like who you like."

"That's what my best friend thought, too." He gave me a grateful smile. "It wasn't like that at my high school, though. People were—"

"Dicks," I said. I could feel my face go scarlet, even as I said it, but Mr. Fitzgerald laughed out loud. His smile blazed up big and proud, and I ducked my head, laughing too.

"Yeah," he said. "They totally were. Except it turns out a lot of them were dealing with the same stuff? Maybe it's like that more often than we think."

"Born that way?" I said softly.

"Yeah, I think so. I mean, what do I know, but… it turns out there's a whole spectrum?" Mr. Fitzgerald looked so baffled that I laughed harder. He grinned at me. "I guess we all fall somewhere on it. Not just about who we like, but… what, and how. The guy we were dumping in the trash, he taught me… so much."

He fell silent. I fiddled with the cord on my headphones, bending it back and forth.

"Did you know," I said, "that plants, when they grow, they actually turn their leaves to face the sun? Like, somehow they can feel where the things they need are coming from, and they grow that way, so they can maximize the amount of energy they get. They know what they need, and they, uh." I suddenly realized how many words I'd said, and I stumbled to a halt.

"They go for it," said Mr. Fitzgerald.

"Yeah," I said.

He wiped his eyes, just a little swipe with his fingers, but it made me want to cry, too. I didn't, though. I just sat there, feeling stupid and useless while he composed himself.

"Kind of sucks to realize plants are smarter than me," he said.

I didn't laugh at that. It did suck.

"You don't think he'll laugh?" I asked. "If I — tell him he's being a — you know."

"A dick," he whispered. We both cracked up at the same time. He patted the table. "Come on, you have to be able to say it to me, or you'll never be able to say it to him."

I shook my head, but even as I did, I could feel myself shift inside, orienting myself to face the source of what I needed. Maybe it was Mr. Fitzgerald, and maybe it was something else, but I could feel it nonetheless.

"You were really a — a dick to that guy," I said.

Mr. Fitzgerald nodded soberly. "I really was."

"But you stopped. Right?"

"I did. I apologized. We both did. He was a bigger man than either of us were."

"Did he… accept your apology?"

He looked like he might really lose it, but after looking away for a moment, he nodded again. "Not that I deserved it. But it was good, for a while. I ended up asking him to marry me."

I stared at him. "Oh."

Mr. Fitzgerald shook his head. "It doesn't matter now. He's going to marry another guy. Somebody who needs him."

"Not your best friend?" I blurted out. I must have sounded horrified. I sure felt it, because the way he was telling the story, it sounded like that was what must have happened. But Mr. Fitzgerald just looked oddly thoughtful.

"You know, maybe he will?" he said. "That would be… kind of the perfect ending." He shook himself a little, taking a deep breath and straightening his shoulders with a brisk smile. "I guess I'll have to wait and see how it comes out."

* * *

Ry was the only one online when I got home. I almost logged right back out again, but if there was ever a time for me to do this, it was going to be today, when I felt full of the light of Mr. Fitzgerald.

I changed my _What's up?_ to _courageous. _It took Ry a few minutes to say anything.

R: _hey_

He'd never been one to use many words. Maybe once I would have ascribed that to his dyslexia.

_Hey,_ I said. _Can I tell you something?_

R: _sure, what is it_

I steeled myself and placed my fingers on the keys. _You were really a dick to Katie last year._

There was a brief pause.

R: _I know, I totaly was. I apolagized alot_

He had. I'd even been around to witness some of it, which had helped.

_I remember. Last spring, I didn't think an apology was enough but now I think I was wrong._

R: _I never espected you to forgive me, Ricky_

I was already crying, but considering my dog Dexter was the only one there to see it, it didn't matter all that much. I wiped my eyes on a tissue and blew my nose before replying.

_I think I do I forgive you, though._

R: _no way man. I dont deserve that._

_It's not even about deserving or not deserving it. _ I hesitated before adding, _Maybe you don't care about how I feel, but it matters a lot to me. _

R: _dude I totaly care! you know that right. _

I think I actually did, but it didn't make it any less scary to type _Yes, I know. _Like I could count on him feeling that way about _me, _a guy he'd never met, never seen, never heard.

R: _so yeah, I was a dick, cuz I was scared. With Katie I dint want anybuddy to make it bad for us at school but man it turned out I was the only one making it bad_

_Making it bad for Katie?_ I asked.

R: _yeah, for her, and for me and Jake and Mar and Sarah too. I care about everyone._

_Katie wanted to be special to you, though. _

R: _cant everybody be special in there own way_

I sighed, feeling exasperated. I didn't even know what Ry looked like, but right now I wanted to grab him and shake him. _She's in love with you. _

I knew the words would be there, waiting for her to see when she logged in, but because it was Katie, I knew she'd be okay with it. But the words Ry said in return made me push back my chair, blinking at the screen.

R: _yeah dude I love all of you like that. _

I knew Ry well enough to know he didn't prevaricate or pretend. He wasn't subtle. If he said _all of you,_ it included me. I took another tissue and, with shaking fingers, blew my nose again.

R: _ I figured you wouldnt be weird about that but sorry if you are._

_I'm not,_ I said quickly. _I'm just surprised and I don't know what to say._

R: _yeah I get that. you dont have to say anething. dont be a dick like me is all. _

I spent a few minutes petting Dexter, then realized I was smiling at Ry's comment.

_Katie forgave you,_ I typed. _So did Mar. I guess I didn't really understand how they could have forgiven you until today. But just because you were a dick didn't mean you didn't care. _

R: _just because I care doesn't mean I get a free pass tho. you dont have to trust me after wat I did_

_You're talking to me. You're making it easier to trust you again. _

Maybe it _was_ a little weird to think about Ry saying _I love all of you like that, _but I didn't think it was because he was a guy. He could have been a walrus or a robot or anything for all I cared. It was who he was inside that mattered. When I logged off, I could feel the smile sticking around, and it stayed with me the rest of the night.

* * *

When I got to the counseling office the next day, Ms. Lauer was busy helping another student, so I signed myself in on the clipboard and headed into the conference room. I'd barely settled into my usual chair when the door opened again and the man from yesterday walked in, the one with the smile and the hair.

"Oh, he's not here?" he said to me. He had a friendly voice. "Sean. Uh — Mr. Fitzgerald."

I shook my head. He held up a plastic grocery bag, gesturing with it so it bounced all over the place. I hoped there wasn't anything fragile in there.

"He probably doesn't want me waiting around," he said. "Okay if I leave this?"

I nodded, shrugging to convey _I don't really have any control here._ He grinned at me as he set the bag down.

"You're Roderick? I'm Ben."

I had to dip pretty far down into the courage I'd been given yesterday in order to respond. "He told you about me?"

"I'll tell you something, kid," said Ben. "He don't have too many people to talk to in Chicago. There's me, and there's you."

I nodded slowly. "You."

He shrugged. "Maybe he don't know how to have friends anymore, but I'm the closest thing he's got."

I glanced at the door, then back at Ben. "I think, uh… I think maybe Mr. Fitzgerald feels like he's the one with the spinal injury."

"Huh?"

"His friend who got hurt."

"Spinal injury?" Ben cocked his head at me. "He ain't told me about him, but — okay, I get the idea. You think there are things he thinks he can't do. And you think he _can,_ but he _won't?_" He leaned in a little closer. "The thing is, Roderick… I think he actually _can't."_

"Ben?"

We both swiveled to face the door to where Mr. Fitzgerald was standing, watching us talking together with a wary expression. My heart gave an anxious lurch, but Ben just smiled.

"You forgot something." He indicated the bag on the table. "And I was just leaving. See you, Roderick."

Mr. Fitzgerald tracked Ben with his eyes, watching the empty door for several long seconds after he was gone.

"That was, uh." He cleared his throat. "Awkward."

"No, it was okay," I said. Mr. Fitzgerald blinked at me. I went on. "He was nice. He's your boyfriend?"

"I don't —" He cut himself off immediately, shaking his head. "I don't know. I don't have an answer for that. You _talked_ to him?"

I grinned. "Must be something in the water. I stopped Trip in the hallway this morning and told him he was being a dick to me."

"Hey," he breathed, his mouth sliding into a smile. "Roderick. That's awesome."

"Yeah." I knew it was too early to know for sure if it had worked or not, but just hearing me say _anything_ had shocked Trip into apologizing, right there in the hallway. That alone had been worth it. "And yesterday I said the same thing to Ry. He's my friend online."

"I remember." His smile had dimmed a little, but he nodded. "What was that about?"

"Relationship stuff. He was pretty judgmental about Katie when she told him… well, it's a long story, but it came out okay." Every time I thought about what Ry had said to me, the word _love_ in the context of _all of us_, I felt a little flutter in my stomach. "More than okay, I think. I was afraid to tell him that I was mad at him, because… I guess I felt like we had a kind of connection, because of what happened to our dads. They were both killed in the same incident."

Mr. Fitzgerald's smile was gone now. He just looked at me. I tried to smile anyway, to show him I was grateful for what he'd given me, even if I couldn't express it. I went on.

"That afternoon… we found out about his dad first, and right away Mar and Sarah were talking about getting me on a train to Lima to be with everybody. Then I got the call about my dad." I shrugged, trying not to get stuck in the memories of that day, that whole week. "There was no way my mom was going to let me go after that. And they were all focused on what had happened at home, so we just…"

"You had to go through it alone," he said.

"Not really alone, though. My mom was a wreck, but my friends, they were there. At least the way they've always been there. We talk every day. It doesn't matter that they're far away."

Mr. Fitzgerald nodded. That sad face was back. Then he reached out and touched my elbow. It called my attention to him. I held my breath.

"I'm so, so sorry for all of that, Roderick," he said quietly. "Everything that happened with your father, and Ry's father."

"It's okay," I said, feeling bewildered. "I mean, it's not really _okay,_ but… it's not like it was your fault?"

Mr. Fitzgerald looked away. "I don't think anybody can take responsibility for something like that."

There was a silence. It wasn't exactly awkward, because things never really felt awkward with Mr. Fitzgerald, but it gave me a chance to think about what else I could tell him about my dad.

"After it happened, my therapist told me one of the ways I could deal with feeling angry was to give myself permission to yell about it. Anything, even curse words. That's… my dad would never let me do that."

He was watching me uncertainly. "She wanted you to yell at the — at the gunman, the person who shot him?"

"Maybe?" I wasn't sure how Mr. Fitzgerald would react if I suggested I really wanted to yell at my _father_, for all the things we never got to deal with, all the things I never told him before he died. I gave him a hopeful smile. "Just… maybe now I could?"

_You gave me that,_ I wanted to say. Suddenly all my words seemed to be gone. Luckily Mr. Fitzgerald didn't appear to notice.

He pulled out his chair and sat down, taking off his jacket and sorting through his papers. I got out my history textbook. It was quiet while we worked. At some point, though, I dared to reach out and nudge his arm. He looked up, surprised but listening.

"I don't think the word _dick_ is strong enough," I said.

Mr. Fitzgerald looked horrified. "For the man who shot your father? I hope not."

I flinched a little. "I — I'm sure. They don't know who that was. So, you know, I can't really have feelings about somebody who was never caught."

Understanding dawned on his face. "Oh. You meant your father."

I nodded, staring down at the scratched surface of the conference table. Somebody had carved _this sucks_ in the left corner in very pretty cursive script.

"Can you tell me… what he did?"

Mr. Fitzgerald asked it very gently, not in an obnoxious way. I knew I didn't have to say anything if I didn't want to.

"It wasn't really anything worse than most of the other ambassadors' kids had to deal with," I said slowly. "My dad… had rules. He wouldn't tolerate me being less than perfect, and… well, look at me." I gestured at myself. Mr. Fitzgerald's mouth tightened. "He said mistakes were unacceptable. Cursing, being sloppy or getting bad grades were the kinds of things other people's kids did. When I messed up, he made sure to let me know it."

I sat there, trying to figure out what else I could say that wouldn't be completely awful. Mr. Fitzgerald had on that sad-hurt face again.

"He was wrong, you know," he said. "Nobody's perfect. I had a — I knew a boy who had a father like that. It didn't matter that he made mistakes sometimes. He was still worth…"

I waited for what felt like a long time, listening to the silence with restless anticipation, wanting to know what Mr. Fitzgerald thought a boy might be worth if he wasn't perfect. But he just shrugged and looked at me hard.

"I'm sorry your father ever made you feel that way. Ever."

I shrugged too. "I'm going to keep trying to figure out… what I need, now that he's not around to tell me that anymore. My therapist says it'll take time." I laced my fingers together tightly. "I miss him a lot."

"Yeah."

"I don't know if I should, but I do."

He sighed. "I'd be surprised if you didn't. Even if he wasn't always what you wanted him to be, he was still your father."

I didn't feel quite as courageous anymore as I had that morning. If I had, I would have said, _I had no idea what I wanted my father to be. But now… I think I might know._

* * *

The messages online that night were all about the PSAT test tomorrow. Sarah was only a sophomore, so she wasn't taking it yet. Katie expressed her post-graduate sympathies to the rest of us who would be sitting through hours of meaningless multiple-choice questions.

Jake's last comment before he logged off was to me: _I wish we all had the same testing site, ricky. _

_Yeah,_ Mar said, _but at least we'll all be doing the same thing at the same time? It'll be something to think about when it gets hard._

_We could come visit you some weekend, you know,_ Sarah said, as she often did. _Chicago's not so far away. I bet Blaine would drive us if I asked him to._

_It's okay,_ I said. _This is good enough._

That was my usual response when someone brought up arranging a visit. But tonight, I thought instead about what Mr. Fitzgerald had said about my father. I thought about how my father had made a point last year to tell me under no circumstances would I be driving from Columbus to Lima to visit a girl. I had to wonder how he might have felt if he'd heard what Ry had said about love, or about the kind of boyfriend-girlfriend stuff that seemed to be going on among some of the members of our group. Nobody had said anything at all about Ry's comment today, or even seemed surprised by it.

_Good luck, everybody,_ I wrote before signing off myself, even though everyone else had already gone to bed.

While sorting through the papers in my backpack, I came across the sheet music Ms. Lauer had given me that morning. My mom returned from work in time to hear me play the third verse. She set her bags down by the door and stood there while she took off her shoes, rubbing her feet and smiling at me as I sang:

_I believe in the kingdom come  
__Then all the colors will bleed into one  
__Bleed into one  
__Well yes I'm still running  
_

_You broke the bonds and you loosed the chains  
__Carried the cross of my shame  
__Of my shame  
__You know I believed it  
__But I still haven't found what I'm looking for_

"That's a welcome sound at the end of a long shift," she said softly when I'd finished.

I still wasn't sure how to thank my mom for what she'd done after my father died, selling our too-big house, moving us to Chicago and taking a job working double shifts at my aunt's store just to cover rent on our apartment. As far as I knew, it was the first time in her life she'd ever had a job. She'd always simply been the ambassador's wife, gracious and politically savvy, capable of . It must have sucked big time to move to retail, but she'd never complained.

"Mom?" I said.

She kicked her shoes toward the wall. "Mmm?"

"The test is tomorrow. The PSAT."

"I know. I'll get up and make you breakfast before you leave. You feel ready?"

"Sure." I knelt and settled my guitar carefully back into its case. "I was thinking… my friends in Ohio, I might… maybe I'd like to look at applying for some of the same colleges as them."

She looked a little confused. "Your friends from Columbus?"

"The ones online," I said. "From my group."

My mom nodded slowly. She knew there were online friends, but since it was a confidential space, I didn't talk much about them specifically. She came over and sat down at the kitchen table. "Where in Ohio?"

"Lima, mostly." The more I talked, the more possible the idea seemed. "I think, if we lived in the same town, maybe we could be face-to-face friends, too."

She came over and gave me a hug. "I'm sure you could. You're doing so much better since you started junior year, Ricky. This school is really helping."

_I am doing better,_ I thought, hugging her back. _But it's not the school. It's Mr. Fitzgerald._

* * *

Song credits:

"One" by U2.

"I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For" by U2.


End file.
